Chapter 7
Cillian
My wife’s fingers are laced with mine as the elevator climbs.
My wife. Nora O’Rourke. I roll the name around in my head, and it fits in a way nothing about this arrangement should. And I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
She hasn’t spoken since we left City Hall. Her hand is warm in mine, her pulse a rapid flutter where our palms meet. I run my thumb over her knuckles—our thing now, I suppose—and she glances up at me, so goddamn gorgeous.
The elevator doors open into the penthouse. She starts to take a step inside.
“Wait,” I bark. She pauses, looking at me questioningly over her shoulder. I scoop her up—one arm under her knees, the other around her back—and lift her off the floor.
She gasps, her hands flying to my shoulders. “What are you—”
“It’s tradition.”
I carry her over the threshold. She weighs nothing, and I hold her too long, aware of how she fits here—her head near my shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of my suit jacket.
I set her down inside but don’t release her waist. Her hands stay on my shoulders. We stand in the dim foyer, staring at each other.
“Hungry?” I finally ask when my voice returns.
She shakes her head.
“Tired?”
A nod. Her teeth catch her lower lip. That goddamn lip. I’ve been watching her bite it for days, and every time, my cock takes note.
I force myself to let go and step back. “We should talk.”
It’s time to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
The wedding night. What happens now? What she expects. What I want.
“Nora.” I angle toward her. “I meant what I said. I won’t push you into anything physical.”
“I believe you.”
“But I’d like us to sleep in the same bed from now on.” I choose each word with care. “What we do there depends entirely on you. If all you want to do is sleep, we just sleep. You’re in control. You dictate what does or doesn’t happen.”
Nora doesn’t seem to know what to do with that—clearly no one’s ever given her control before.
Her fingers twist in her lap. “In your bed?”
“Our bed.”
She blushes. “Okay,” she says, the pink spilling up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Okay?”
She knows, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Okay.”
The victory is small yet enormous.
She disappears into the bathroom to change. I strip down, put on a pair of sleep pants, sit on the edge of the mattress, and scroll through security updates on my phone without absorbing a single word.
I can hear water running. A cabinet opening and closing. I picture her in there—my bride, getting ready for our wedding night—and force the image away before my body takes over.
This is not about what I want. She’s innocent, skittish, and I have to take my time with her. Every move must be made with care.
The bathroom door opens.
She’s wearing a satiny night shirt sort of thing that hangs to her mid-thigh. Her legs are bare. Her hair falls around her shoulders.
I forget how to breathe.
“You look beautiful.” My voice doesn’t sound right. Too low, too raw.
She crosses to the bed and slips under the covers on the far side, pulling them up to her chin.
I turn off the lamp and lie down.
A king-sized bed stretches between us—acres of mattress, miles of empty sheets separating her from me.
“Good night, wife,” I say, unable to stop myself.
“Good night, husband.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
Neither of us sleeps.
I know she’s awake from her breathing—uneven and controlled. I’m awake from the way my body refuses to stand down. She’s in my bed, wearing my shirt, and every nerve I have is tuned to her frequency.
She shifts. The sheets rustle.
Her scent is everywhere, layering over mine into something new.
My cock is rock hard. Has been since she walked out of that bathroom. I stare at the ceiling and will my body to cooperate.
It doesn’t.
She sighs—not asleep, not close—and the sound goes straight to my dick.
This is going to be a long night.
At a certain point, when her breathing finally evens out, I let myself look at her. I can make out her profile in the dark—relaxed, soft, all her defensive armor stripped away.
I should close my eyes. I have an early morning call with—
A whimper cuts through the silence, low and broken and animal, rising from deep in her throat.
I’m up on one elbow before the sound fades. Nora’s face is contorted—brows drawn, mouth twisted, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Her fingers claw at the sheets.
“No—” The word tears out of her. “Please, don’t—I’ll be good, I’ll—”
She’s probably dreaming about him. About Seamus fucking Murphy and his fists. Does she do this every night?
“Nora.” I touch her shoulder, as gently as I can manage with rage narrowing my vision to a red point. “Wake up, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
She thrashes, batting at my hand. Another sound rips out of her—half-sob, half-scream, muffled into the pillow.
“Nora.” Louder. Firmer. “It’s me. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
She jerks awake, eyes wide and unseeing. She scrambles backward, hits the headboard, and throws both arms up to shield her face.
The defensive posture of a girl who’s been abused her whole life.
I don’t move. Don’t reach for her. I hold both hands up where she can see them.
“It’s Cillian. You’re in our home. No one’s going to hurt you.”
She gulps air, each breath harsh and ragged. She looks around the dark room, finds me, and I watch her recognize me—the panic retreating into wariness.
“I’m sorry.” She chokes it out. “I didn’t mean to wake you—”
“Don’t apologize. Come here.”
She stares at me. I can see the war behind her eyes—the part of her craving comfort versus the part that’s learned comfort always carries a price. Not with me, she’ll learn she can trust me, but I know that will take time and consistency.
“Please,” I add. A word I don’t use often enough.
She moves toward me in inches, braced for punishment. One wrong move from me and she’ll bolt.
I don’t rush her. I wait until she’s close enough, then wrap my arms around her and pull her in. She goes rigid for one heartbeat, then two, and then her walls collapse. She folds into me, her face buried in the crook of my neck, her whole body trembling.
I hold her. One hand in her hair, the other banded around her waist. Her tears fall hot on my skin.
“You’re safe,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you. No one will ever touch you that way again. I swear on my life.”
She grips my side, holding on, crying silently. No wails, no loud sobs, just years of grief pouring out in silence.
I press my mouth to her hair and let her fall apart. I’ll hold every broken piece of her together if that’s what she needs from me.
Minutes pass—five or thirty, I can’t tell. Her shaking subsides. Her breathing calms. She stays pressed into me, and I keep my arms locked around her. I will not be the one to let go.
She lifts her face. Our mouths are inches apart.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I brush a tear off her cheek with my thumb. Her skin is damp and softer than anything a man with my hands has a right to touch.
The moment stretches and shifts into a different register.
I lean in, giving her every opportunity to turn away.
She doesn’t.
I kiss her.
It’s not the chaste press of lips from the ceremony. This kiss has teeth. I take her mouth slowly, tasting the salt of her tears, coaxing her lips apart. She makes a sound—surprise, need, surrender—and her hands slide up to my shoulders, fingers digging in.
I deepen the kiss. She responds with a hunger that floors me. Her tongue meets mine, uncertain at first, then bolder, and the moan she releases into my mouth urges me on.
I pull back enough to see her face. Her eyes are glazed, her lips wet and parted.
“Don’t stop,” she says.
“Are you sure?”
“I want... I don’t know what I want. But I don’t want you to stop touching me.”
I again have to remind myself to take this slow. I shouldn’t rush things. We’re married now. We have time. The last thing I want is for her to think she has to fuck me out of some misplaced sense of gratitude.
“I’d like to pleasure you tonight without us fully consummating this marriage. If you’ll let me.”
She searches my face. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I kiss her again, deeper and longer, pressing her into the pillows as I settle over her and brace my weight on my forearms. “Tell me if you want to stop. At any point. Understood?”
“Yes.”
I kiss down her jaw, along her throat. I press my mouth where her pulse races—fast, alive.
My hand slides under the hem of my t-shirt. Palm flat on her stomach, skin on skin. She sucks in a breath, her muscles jumping at the contact.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
I move higher, tracing her ribs, the curve beneath her breast, and I pause there to let her adjust.
“Please don’t stop.” Her voice is wrecked.
I cup her tits over the thin cotton of her bra. Small and perfect, fitting my palm like they belong there. She arches into the contact, a gasp caught in her throat.
“That’s my girl,” I tell her, my mouth on her collarbone. “So fucking perfect. No one touches you here but me. Understood?”
“Yes.” She shivers under my hand.
I slip beneath the fabric, take her nipple between my fingers, and roll it. She grips my shoulders, hips lifting off the mattress.
I want to worship every inch of her—spend hours mapping this body, learning every sound she can make. I won’t do it tonight. Tonight is about trust.
My hand trails lower—over her stomach, her hip—and stops at the edge of her underwear.
“Can I?”
Her breath is ragged. “Yes.”
I press my fingers over the fabric. She’s warm, wet, and the sound she makes damn near snaps my control.
“Has anyone ever touched this sweet pussy of yours?” I keep my voice level.
“No.”
“Good. I’m the first, and I’m going to be the last and only. Stay with me.”
She nods.
“I trust you.” A whisper.
Three words, and they gut me. I’ve built my entire empire on the principle that trust gets people killed.
Every alliance I’ve formed, every deal I’ve brokered—there’s always been a contingency plan, an exit strategy, a weapon within reach.
I trust no one, not fully, not even my brothers.
And this girl, who has been beaten and sold and abandoned by every person who was supposed to protect her, is handing me the one thing I’ve spent my life refusing to give anyone.
I don’t deserve it. But I’ll cherish it.
I slide my hand beneath the fabric and touch her directly.
She cries out—not from pain, but from shock, sensation, raw nerve endings discovering pleasure they’ve never known.
I am patient with her. I’ve never been patient with anyone else on this earth, but with her, I will be if it kills me. I learn what makes her breath skip, what makes her hips rock, what makes her grab fistfuls of the sheets and hold on for dear life.
I circle her clit with slow, constant pressure while my mouth finds hers again. She kisses me back, messy and desperate, her fingers knotted in my hair.
“Cillian…there’s…” She can’t form the sentence.
“I know. Let go. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. Let go for me, Nora.”
She shatters. Her body bows off the mattress, her thighs clamping around my hand, my name tearing from her throat. I hold her through it, gentling my touch, bringing her down one slow stroke at a time.
She collapses into the pillows, eyes wide, breathing ragged.
“Beautiful,” I tell her, pressing my lips to her temple. “So fucking beautiful when you come apart for me.”
She turns her face into my neck, and I gather her close, pulling her body flush with mine.
“Are you alright?”
She nods into the hollow of my throat. I can sense her pulse everywhere our skin touches.
She shifts, and her hip presses into my cock—hard, aching, straining the fabric of my sleep pants. She stiffens in recognition.
“What about you?”
“There’s time for that another night.” I kiss her forehead. “I’m fine.”
“But you didn’t—”
“There’s time. We’re married. Sleep now.”
She doesn’t argue. She presses closer, fitting herself into me—her head tucked under my jaw, one leg draped over mine, her arm across my stomach. I pull the blanket over us and stroke her hair as her breathing evens, her body slowly surrendering to sleep.
I stare at the ceiling, still achingly hard, still tasting her on my lips.
I told myself this was supposed to be a strategic marriage. A business arrangement dressed in legal language and practical benefits. I don’t know who I thought I was fooling. I’ve been inexplicably drawn to this woman from the moment I set eyes on her.
I press my face into her hair and close my eyes.
I’ve spent thirty-eight years building walls so high no one could scale them. This slip of a woman just walked through them—unarmed, unhurried, and with enough strength to annihilate every locked door I’ve ever built.