Chapter 3
Cillian
What the hell did I think I was doing? And what the hell am I going to do with her?
Someone else is in my space. There’s another person in my home.
The memory of yesterday floods back as I dress in my suit and tie—standard business attire. Her father’s pathetic offer, the bruise on her face, the garbage bag of belongings. The decision I still can’t fully explain.
I wince when the coffee machine grinds. I never realized how loud it was. This is a big apartment, but I find myself hoping the noise doesn’t wake her. She looked like she could use some sleep—about a week of solid sleep.
My phone shows three missed calls from my mother.
I know what she wants. I know what she’s gonna say.
I’m not in the mood to be harassed about how it’s time I settle down and start producing heirs.
Or for another monologue about this or that age-appropriate socialite and what a marital alliance with her family will bring to the organization.
I silence my phone and shove it in my pocket.
The penthouse feels different with her here. I keep listening for sounds—footsteps, water running, anything to indicate she’s awake.
Nothing.
I should probably feed her. That’s what you do with houseguests, right? Except she’s not a houseguest. She’s—
I don’t know what the fuck she is.
I make toast and eggs, plating them with more care than the task requires. Should I wake her or let her sleep?
This is ridiculous. I run a criminal empire. I’ve negotiated deals worth millions, ordered hits, and stared down barrels of loaded weapons. And I’m standing in my kitchen debating whether to wake up a nineteen-year-old girl.
I walk down the hallway and knock on the guest room door.
No answer.
“Nora?” I knock again, harder.
Still nothing.
I open the door carefully, remembering my promise not to touch her without permission.
The bed is untouched. Perfectly made like no one slept there at all.
My pulse kicks up. What the hell? Did she run? Climb out a window thirty-two floors up? I scan the room.
The closet door is cracked.
I pull it wider and find her curled in a ball on the floor with a pillow clutched to her chest. Asleep.
My hands ball into fists. What the hell has she been through that sleeping on a closet floor feels safer than a comfortable bed? The bruises I can see are bad enough—what about the ones I can’t?
I’m going to kill that bastard.
Not today. Not this week. But Seamus Murphy is a dead man.
I crouch in the doorway, careful not to enter her space. “Nora.”
She doesn’t stir.
“Nora.” Louder this time.
Her eyes fly open and she scrambles backward, hitting the wall. The terror on her face—pure, animal fear—guts me.
“It’s me,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re safe. It’s morning.”
She blinks rapidly, orienting herself. Recognition dawns, and the panic fades to wariness.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “I didn’t mean to—the closet was—”
“Don’t apologize.” I stand, offering her my hand. “Come on. I made breakfast.”
She stares at my hand like it might bite her before taking it. Her fingers are freezing.
I pull her to her feet and lead her to the kitchen. She moves like she’s expecting a backhand at any second. For not the first time, I take note of how she holds herself with hunched shoulders, making herself smaller.
The eggs are lukewarm now, but I plate them anyway and set them in front of her at the counter. “Eat.”
She looks at the food, then at me. “I’m not really hungry.”
It’s a lie. I can read it in her face.
“Eat anyway.”
She picks up the fork with an uncertain hand and takes a bite. Then another. Then she’s shoveling the food in her mouth like someone who’s experienced food scarcity.
I watch her as I pour myself a cup of coffee.
The bruise on her cheek is darker in the morning light.
There’s another fading one on her jaw I didn’t notice yesterday.
Her brow is knitted in a permanent expression of worry, her face is too thin—too angular and bony from lack of nutrition—and there are dark circles under her eyes.
But underneath all that—
She’s pretty. Delicate features, long lashes, a mouth that would be soft if it wasn’t pressed into a tight line.
I shut that thought down hard. She’s nineteen. Traumatized. Not going there.
“Did you sleep all right?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Yes, sir.”
The “sir” makes my jaw clench. “Cillian is fine.”
She finishes eating and stands immediately, picking up her plate.
“Leave it.”
“I should clean up—”
“I said leave it.” It comes out too harsh and I want to kick myself when she flinches.
I force myself to breathe and try again. “I’ll handle it.”
She nods but doesn’t sit back down. She just stands there, waiting for instructions.
My phone buzzes. Finn. I answer.
“Boss, we’ve got a situation at the docks. Need you here at the office.”
I watch Nora while he talks. She’s making herself smaller again, shoulders hunched, eyes down.
“I’ll be there in an hour.” I hang up and turn to her. “I have to go to work.”
She nods.
“You can do whatever you want while I’m gone. Watch TV, read, order food.” I pull out my wallet and slap a couple of hundreds on the table in front of her. “Here’s some money if you need it.”
“Am I a prisoner?”
The question surprises me. “No.”
“So I can leave?”
“I’d prefer it if you don’t leave the building. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because there may be people out there who want to hurt you to get to me.”
Her eyes widen. I’m scaring her. I don’t like it, but I suppose it has to be done. She should hear the truth.
“How long do I have to stay inside?”
“I don’t know yet.” The honest answer.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head for the door. As I pass her, I notice a strand of hair has fallen across her face.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
The moment my fingers brush her cheek, I know it was a stupid move.
Her breath catches—I hear it. Her lips part. Her pulse jumps at her throat, visible and rapid.
We’re close. Close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo.
She’s looking at me with wide, startled eyes. Not afraid—not right now. This look is different than fear.
My cock jumps to life, filling with blood. Hardening, lengthening.
My fingers linger against her skin for a heartbeat too long. She’s so soft and warm under my touch.
When I come to my senses, I pull my hand away like she’s a hot stove and take a step back.
What the hell was that?
“I’ll be back this afternoon.” My voice emerges rough and gravelly.
I leave before I do anything stupider.
Finn, my lieutenant, is waiting in my office when I arrive, along with two of my brothers—Declan and Ronan.
“What’s the situation?” I drop into my chair and pull up the security reports.
Finn briefs me on a shipment issue. Standard problem, standard solution. I handle it in twenty minutes.
When our meeting concludes, all three of them remain in my office.
“So,” Declan says. “You want to explain what you’re doing with Seamus Murphy’s daughter?”
“No.”
Jesus fuck, gossip travels faster in this organization than it does in a geriatric knitting circle.
“Cillian—”
“I said no.”
Ronan leans against the wall. “Ma’s losing her mind. She called me four times last night.”
“That’s her problem.”
“The Sullivan alliance—” Declan starts.
“Has nothing to do with Nora.”
All three of them stare at me in silence for a long moment.
“Nora,” Ronan repeats slowly. “Uh-huh. So, what are your plans with her?”
I don’t answer. I’m thinking.
Option one: keep her as a temporary houseguest. But then what? For how long? She’s vulnerable. I can’t stand the thought that Seamus Murphy will get his hands on her again. Or, if not him, some other lowlife scumbag will. Lord knows Chicago’s full of them. She’ll be easy pickings.
Option two: Set her up somewhere safe with money. Similar problem. And I’m realizing I don’t want her somewhere else.
Option three—
The idea takes shape.
It will guarantee her permanent protection. It will also get my mother and her nagging about heirs and alliances off my back.
It’s a strategic solution. And practical.
It has nothing to do with the silky smoothness of her skin when I touched her this morning.
“Boss?” Finn’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Get me a meeting with my lawyer. Today.”
“What for?”
“I need a marriage contract drawn up.”
The room goes silent again. Jaws fall open. Eyes widen.
Declan recovers first. “You’re getting married?”
“To whom?” Ronan asks, but they all see the answer to that question in my eyes. “No fucking way. You’ve known her for one day.”
“I’ve made bigger decisions faster.”
“This is insane.” Declan shakes his head.
“It’s strategic.” I meet his eyes. “A wife who doesn’t bring complications. Who won’t manipulate me or leak info to rivals. Who feels indebted to me for the protection I can provide.”
Ronan is trying not to smile. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“Get out. Both of you.”
As they leave, Finn lingers.
“You sure about this, boss?”
I run a hand through my hair. “No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
Not one to argue with my decisions, he nods and follows my brothers out.
My phone rings. My mother. Again.
I answer this time. “What?”
“Don’t you ‘what’ me, Cillian Patrick O’Rourke. What is this I hear about you taking in a vagrant off the streets?”
“She’s not a vagrant off the streets, mother. She’s a grown woman. And I’m a grown man. What I’m doing or not doing with her is my business.”
“We’re having a family dinner. Tonight. Bring the girl.”
“No. She needs time to adjust.”
“Sunday, then. Family dinner. I want to meet her.” It’s not a request, and I can only fight Kathleen O’Rourke for so long. The woman is relentless.
“Fine. Sunday.”
I hang up before she can say more, and lean back in my chair.
“Marriage is the logical solution,” I say aloud to the empty room, still trying to convince myself.