Chapter 5
Cillian
The smell of food hits me as I walk down the hall from my home office to refill my coffee. Is it—toast, eggs…?
I stop short at the kitchen entrance.
Nora stands at the counter sliding eggs onto two plates. She’s dressed in clothes that…well, I’ve seen homeless people dress better. Her hair is pulled back. There’s still a slight hunch, an uncertainty, to her posture, but if I’m not mistaken, the hauntedness in her eyes has dulled some.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice quiet but clear.
“Morning.” I walk to the coffee pot and pour myself a refill. I take a sip, watching her over the rim as I drink. “You didn’t have to make breakfast.”
“I wanted to.” She places a plate in front of me. “To thank you.”
For a second, I’m thrown. In my world, people fear me, respect me, obey me—gratitude is unusual.
I drop the contract, freshly delivered by courier this morning, on the table next to me and dig into the eggs. They’re perfect—simple but well-seasoned. As I eat, I rehearse the words in my head again.
Time to get this done.
“Sit down,” I tell her, setting my fork on the side of my plate. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Her face pales. Fear tightens her features. She freezes, muscles locking.
“You’re not in trouble,” I add quickly. “I simply have a...a proposition for you.”
She sits across from me, folding her hands. My eyes are drawn to her bitten nails.
I draw a breath, ready to launch into the speech I prepared, when suddenly all thoughts leave my head, and I blurt out, “It’s a marriage proposition.”
The words land between us like stones dropped in still water. I watch ripples of confusion cross her face.
“Marriage?” She blinks. “Who? Who’s getting married?” And then it dawns on her. “Wait, a proposition for me? You want to marry me? Why?”
I shift, angling toward her. “You need permanent protection and security.” I keep my tone direct, clear, and business-like. “Marriage gives you legal protection, access to resources, safety from anyone who might come looking for you.”
She processes this, wariness evident in her expression.
“In my world, as my wife, you’d be untouchable.”
She blinks, her lashes fluttering rapid-fire against her cheeks, but remains silent.
This is where I lay it on thickly, dangle more of the carrot. “You’d live here, you’d have financial security, protection, freedom to pursue whatever goals you want—education, work, hobbies.”
She looks at me fully then, her eyes shrewdly searching my face for the lie, the trap, the hidden cost.
“What do you get out of this? Men like you don’t make deals that only benefit one side.” She holds my gaze. Brave girl.
I feel a sliver of pride. She’s smart.
“You’re right.” I lean back, conceding the point. “I’ve been under pressure from family and business associates for years. Recently, the pressure has increased. Substantially. This will satisfy their demands without requiring me to...negotiate with potential brides and their families.”
“So I’m convenient.” No judgment in her voice. Just stating facts.
“No.” The word comes out harder than intended. “You’re practical. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
I study her profile—the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she holds herself so carefully contained. Even terrified and powerless, she asks questions. Pushes back, however gently. Good girl.
“It’s a win-win. You get security and the chance at a better future, and I get a wife who won’t scheme for power or try to manipulate the family business.
Who won’t have relatives angling for advantages or expecting favors.
Someone who...” I pause, searching for the right words.
“Someone who doesn’t want anything from me except to be left alone. ”
“That’s what you think I want? To be left alone?”
“Isn’t it?”
She looks away. “I don’t know what I want. I’ve never been allowed to want anything.”
The admission costs her—I can see it in the white-knuckle grip of her folded hands.
I’m not sure how to respond to it, so I continue my proposal. “You’d live here. Attend business events with me occasionally, family functions when required, and together we maintain the appearance of a legitimate marriage.”
I sound as if I’m negotiating a business merger instead of proposing marriage.
Because that’s what this is. A merger. A strategic alliance.
So why does a part of me hate how sterile it sounds?
“Appearance.” Nora turns the word over, analyzing every angle. She’s not stupid. Far from it. I can see the wheels turning behind her guarded mask. “So you don’t actually want a wife. You want someone to play the part.”
“Publicly, you’d be on my arm at events. Play the role.”
Her fingers twist tighter. “And privately?”
I choose my next words with care. This matters. “I won’t force you into anything. Not the bedroom, not anything else.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes directly for the first time since we sat down. “But you’d want…that…eventually?”
The question lands heavily. My body reacts instantly as I envision her skin against mine, her mouth under mine, her body writhing beneath me. Her hair spread across my pillow, her voice crying my name. The images flood my mind unbidden, vividly, and I have to force them down.
“I won’t lie to you. Yes, eventually, I’d want a real marriage. Children. But only when you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
“Then we’d figure it out.”
She swallows hard, her throat working. “Have you…do you…have someone else? For that?”
“No.”
“Would you? If I couldn’t—”
“No.” The word erupts from my mouth, sharp and possessive. My hands clench on the table before I can stop them. “If you’re my wife, you’re my wife. I don’t share and I don’t cheat.”
Even hypothetically, I hate the idea of her imagining me with someone else while I’m married to her—it contradicts everything I ever thought a marriage was supposed to be.
This is a business arrangement. So why am I already feeling territorial over a woman I barely know?
Her breathing changes—quickens. A flush spreads across her cheeks. She’s thinking of having a marriage in the biblical sense, the same as I am, and it doesn’t frighten her.
It does the opposite.
Another silence fills the space between us. I let it stretch, watching her wrestle with thoughts I can only guess at.
“How long?” she asks.
There’s a clause. After five years, if you want out, you can leave with a settlement. Or it can be permanent.”
I slide the contract across the table. Her eyes widen at the thickness of the document.
She falls silent again, studying the contract without touching it. I wait. She needs time to process.
“You should have a lawyer review it—”
“I don’t have a lawyer,” she interrupts.
“I’ll get you one. Independent, not connected to me.”
Her eyebrows lift, surprise visible in the way her forehead creases. She didn’t expect fairness. Of course she didn’t. I doubt anyone in her life has ever been fair to her.
“What if I say no?”
“Then I set you up somewhere safe with enough money to start over. But you’d be more vulnerable.” That’s the truth. I’d protect her either way, but my name, my ring—those provide protections even I can’t guarantee otherwise.
She stares at the contract without touching it. The silence stretches between us. I wait. I can be patient when I want.
“I know this is a lot,” I say, pulling myself back to safer ground. “Take time to think—”
“Yes.”
I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Now it’s my turn to be taken aback. I expected hesitation, questions, and more discussion. Not immediate acceptance.
“You don’t want time to think about it?”
Her smile is small, sad, pragmatic. “What’s to think about? You’re offering me safety, security, and a life. No one else is offering me anything.”
And there’s the simple truth. She’s learned to take whatever escape presents itself, to recognize a life raft when she sees one.
“Nora, this is a legal contract. If you sign this, you’re bound to me.”
“I’m already bound to you. You bought me, remember?”
Her words twist my insides in a way I don’t like.
“This is different,” I counter, leaning forward. “This gives you rights. Protection.” I meet her eyes, willing her to understand. “You’d be an O’Rourke.”
Something shifts in her gaze at that. A flicker of—what? Hope? Doubt? Disbelief? I can’t read it.
I reach out, offering her my hand. “Then we have an agreement.”
She looks at my outstretched hand for a long moment, then she places her smaller hand in mine.
Her palm is warm, her fingers delicate. I can see the blue veins beneath her pale skin. Her pulse hammers against my fingers—fast, erratic, revealing the nerves her face hides.
My thumb strokes across her knuckles. I know I should let go, close the deal, and move on to logistics. But I don’t. I hold on, letting the warmth of her skin seep into mine.
Her breath snags on an inhale. Her lips part. Her eyes—those hazel eyes that have haunted me since I first saw them—lock with mine.
The space between us shrinks, though neither of us moves. Just hands touching, but it feels more intimate than it has any right to.
I want to pull her to me. To seal this bargain with my mouth on hers.
Which is insane. This is a practical arrangement. Not whatever this heat between us is threatening to become.
I release her hand reluctantly.
“I’ll arrange the ceremony for as soon as possible,” I announce. “Small, just witnesses. Unless you want—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “Small is good.”
I nod. “I’ll take care of everything.”
As I walk to my office to make the necessary calls, I glance back. She’s staring at her hand where I touched her.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are wide. Her chest rises and falls too quickly.
She’s not afraid. Not anymore.
She’s responding to me. To my touch.
This was supposed to be a strategic decision. A business arrangement. But the way my fingers itch to touch her again tells a different story.