Chapter 4
Nora
I stand in the middle of the living room for twenty minutes after Cillian leaves, unsure what to do with myself.
Free time is a foreign concept. My entire life has been work, avoid my father, fall into a restless sleep, and repeat. Now I have a whole day stretching ahead with no tasks, no one to avoid, and nowhere I have to be.
I’m alone in this huge, expensive space.
I walk to the wall of windows. Thirty-two floors below, Chicago spreads out like a toy city. Cars look tiny. People are just dots moving along sidewalks. I press my palm against the glass, half-expecting alarms to sound.
Nothing happens.
The TV remote sits on the coffee table. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. There are at least thirty buttons. I press one experimentally, and the massive screen on the wall flickers to life. The volume blares, making me jump. I fumble with the buttons until I find one that lowers it.
I click through channels aimlessly. Cooking shows, reality TV, news. Nothing holds my attention. My mind keeps drifting back to this morning, to Cillian finding me in the closet.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t mock me. Just helped me up and fed me.
And then he touched my face.
My hand rises to the spot where his fingers brushed my skin. The warmth I felt then returns, a flush spreading across my cheeks. I drop my hand quickly.
Don’t be stupid, Nora. He’s not interested in you that way. You’re a charity case. A responsibility he took on.
In the kitchen, I notice a coffee ring on the otherwise pristine counter. Without thinking, I find a cloth and wipe it clean. Once I start, I can’t stop. I open cabinets until I find cleaning supplies and set to work on the already tidy kitchen.
Cleaning calms me. It’s familiar. Useful. I can control this small thing when everything else is beyond my control.
I scrub the counters, wipe down the cabinets, and organize the spice rack alphabetically. I hum under my breath as I work, a melody my mother used to sing. I barely remember her face anymore, but I remember that tune.
When the kitchen gleams, I move to the living room. Dust surfaces that don’t need dusting. Straighten objects that are already perfectly aligned.
A door off the main hallway stands partially open. I hesitate, then peek inside. A home office. Neat, organized, everything in its place. A large desk dominates the space, with a leather chair behind it.
I shouldn’t snoop. I know I shouldn’t.
But on the desk lies a stack of newspapers. That’s odd. I didn’t know anyone read newspapers anymore. I thought everyone learned about current events from TV or the internet. The headline of the top one catches my eye: “O’Rourke Family Suspected in South Side Warehouse Fire.”
I can’t help myself. I pick up the paper, scanning the article. It describes a fire that killed two men, both connected to a rival crime family. Police suspect arson. No evidence. No charges filed. Just suspicion that points directly to the O’Rourkes.
Beneath the newspapers is a framed photograph. Cillian is in an expensive suit, surrounded by equally hard-looking men. One resembles him enough to be a brother. The others have the cold eyes of people who’ve done terrible things and will do them again.
Reality crashes over me like ice water.
Men like Cillian O’Rourke don’t rescue broken girls out of kindness. They have angles. Motives. Uses for people.
I set the paper down exactly where I found it and back out of the office, pulling the door to the same partially-open position. My pulse hammers in my throat.
I run into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, hoping it will clear my head. But when I get there and catch sight of myself in the mirror, I freeze.
The lighting is brutal and honest. The bruise on my cheek is turning a sickly yellow-purple.
Dark circles shadow my eyes like I’ve been punched.
My hair hangs limp, even though it’s clean.
The t-shirt and jeans I’m wearing look as though they’ve been scavenged from the trash and hang on my too-thin frame.
I look exactly like what I am. A nobody girl from nowhere who has nothing—a peon temporarily placed in a palace where she doesn’t belong.
Why me? Why did Cillian O’Rourke take my father up on his offer?
I can’t figure it out, but I do know one thing. Nobody does something for nothing. Nobody.
I turn away from the mirror before the reflection can confirm all my worst thoughts about myself.
Back in the living room, I force myself to sit on the leather couch.
It’s butter-soft under me—probably costs more than every piece of furniture I’ve ever owned combined.
The cooking show is still on. I watch without really seeing as people create beautiful food with ingredients far out of my price range.
At some point, the voices blur together and my eyes drift closed.
The sound of the door opening jolts me awake.
I’m on my feet before I’m fully conscious, heart slamming against my ribs, ready to run or apologize or both.
It’s grown dark outside. I see a hint of the sparkling city skyline through the wall of windows. It must be late.
Cillian stands in the entryway holding white takeout containers. His eyes scan the room, taking in details I can’t see, before they land on me.
“You cleaned.” It’s not a question.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched your things—” The words trip over themselves as they rush out of my mouth.
“It’s fine. Thank you.” He moves to the kitchen and sets the containers on the counter. “You didn’t have to.”
Thank you. The words hit wrong—or right, I don’t know which. When was the last time I was thanked for anything?
I can’t remember.
He opens the containers and my stomach growls loud enough that I’m sure he hears it. My face burns.
“I don’t know what you like, so I got a variety.” He plates the food and hands me a fork, then takes chopsticks for himself.
We eat in awkward silence. He watches me over his meal, those sharp eyes missing nothing. I try not to shovel food in my mouth, but I’m so hungry and it’s so good.
“So you like Chinese,” he says after a while.
“I’ve never had it before.”
His fork stops halfway to his mouth. I’ve said something wrong. Normal people eat Chinese food. Normal people don’t live on sparse scraps and day-old diner food.
I’m grateful when he changes the subject without commenting. “What did you do today?”
“Cleaned. Watched TV.”
“You should rest. You don’t have to work here.”
I frown at my plate. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I don’t understand what you want from me.” The honesty slips out before I can stop it.
Cillian sets down his fork and looks at me directly. “I’m still figuring that out. But I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“Everyone’s afraid of you.” I don’t know why I keep saying these things out loud.
“Yes. But I don’t want you to be.”
I don’t have an answer to that. I reach for my water and that’s when I see it—a cut on his hand. Small, but fresh. Dried blood crusts the edges.
“You’re bleeding.” I reach for his hand before I contemplate what I’m doing. Before I remember who he is. What he is.
My fingers hover above his skin.
But he doesn’t pull away. He wears an amused expression as he turns his palm up. An offering.
I take his hand.
It’s warm, calloused in places, and large enough that mine looks tiny in comparison. The hand of a man who’s done hard things.
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
Right. I remember now, I saw it earlier while I was cleaning.
When I come back with it, he’s still sitting there wearing an amused expression, watching me like I’m a sideshow.
It embarrasses me, but not enough for me to stop.
After all, it’s the least I could do given what he’s already done for me. I owe him, don’t I?
I clean the cut with an alcohol wipe. He doesn’t flinch even though it must sting. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s jagged.
These hands have done terrible things. Burned warehouses with people inside, if the newspaper is right. Broken bones. Maybe killed.
And yet, I don’t feel afraid. Not right now. Not of him.
I adhere a Band-Aid to the clean wound, concentrating on getting it smooth and secure. When I look up to check my work, I realize how close I’ve leaned.
Our faces are inches apart.
His eyes hold mine. The scent of him surrounds me. It’s good. So good. I could stand here and sniff him all night like a complete weirdo.
And I do stand there for way too long. I know I should step back, put distance between us.
Instead, my pulse races for an entirely different reason. A tingling heat races from the tips of my ears all the way to my core. It carries with it that same fluttering sensation from this morning, only stronger now. More insistent.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there for one heartbeat. Two.
I jerk backward. “I—uh—that should heal up well then—”
“Thank you.” His voice comes out rougher than before. Deeper.
The awkwardness between us thickens until I can barely breathe through it. I don’t understand what just happened. What I just felt. My face burns and I can’t look at him.
“It’s getting late. I should let you get some rest.” He stands, putting space between us that I do and don’t want at the same time.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
He pauses at the entrance to the hallway. Doesn’t turn around. “Nora. When you sleep tonight, consider using the bed. Please.”
The word please does something to my chest. I’m not used to being spoken to like that. I’m used to demands. Orders.
I nod again, even though he can’t see me.
He disappears down the hall. I sit at the counter for a long time after, trying to figure out what’s happening to me.
Later, I stand in the doorway of the guest room.
Use the bed, he said. Like it’s simple. Like I don’t have years of conditioning screaming at me to stay small, stay hidden, be invisible.
But he said please.
I think about his hand in mine. Warm and solid.
I pull back the covers and slide between sheets that probably cost more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. The mattress is like a cloud. The pillows smell like lavender. The blankets are fluffy.
For the first time in years, I don’t sleep in fear.