Claiming Genevieve

9. Genevieve

9

GENEVIEVE

W hen I wake up, it’s to the bright sunlight coming in through the windows all around me, once more giving me that uncomfortable feeling of being in an aquarium that I’ve always gotten here. I sit up slowly, my entire body complaining. I feel stiff and awkward, and I desperately want a shower.

“Chris?” I call out tentatively, hating that I’m going to need to ask for help. But just looking at the stairs makes me feel as if getting up to the bathroom is going to be a herculean task. “Chris?”

There’s no sound in the apartment other than the clink of the icemaker. I push myself up slowly, groaning softly at the pain that ripples through me, and reach for my crutches. A sweep of the lower half of the apartment tells me that he’s not down here, and I look at the stairs again.

I have to manage it, somehow.

My phone buzzes, and I glance at it. The screen, when it lights up, is littered with texts—no doubt from Evelyn, Dahlia, the other dancers, Vincent. I can’t face answering any of them. I stare at the phone for a moment, longer, then back at the stairs, before nearly jumping out of my skin when I hear a knock at the door.

Who in the hell? It’s not Chris, obviously—he wouldn’t knock. Evelyn or Dahlia, maybe, come to check up on me. I grab my crutches, making my way laboriously toward the door as the knock sounds again, and I lean on one crutch as I reach for the doorknob.

I swing it open to see Rowan standing on the other side.

“What—”

“What the fuck am I doing here?” He grins. “It’s becoming our standard greeting, at this point.”

“ And leave me the fuck alone is our standard goodbye,” I snap back before I can think better of it. “Which, now that I’ve said it—” I start to close the door, but he puts a hand against it, stopping it halfway. I flinch without meaning to, and I see his eyes widen.

“Holy shite, Genevieve, I’m not going to hurt you. I knew your boyfriend was an asshole, but?—”

“And you’re an idiot for showing up here,” I hiss, choosing to evade the implications of his comment. “If Chris was home—” Once again, the words come out without thinking—what I didn’t want to admit to myself a few minutes ago as I stood there staring at the stairs.

Chris isn’t home. He didn’t even bother checking on me before he left. And it’s a Saturday, so I have no fucking idea where he is, but it isn’t work. He’s out with his friends—or worse yet, maybe another woman—while I’m here trying to piece together the ruins of my life and wondering how to climb stairs that, yesterday morning, I would have gone up effortlessly.

“He’s not?” Rowan’s expression turns dark, and I stare at him.

“You seriously showed up here thinking Chris might be home?”

“I—” He pauses, as if realizing that it was a stupid idea. “I needed to see you.”’

“ Why?” I shake my head. “You don’t even know me. And since I’ve known you?—”

“I know.” He holds up his hands. “I know. I’ve seemingly fucked it all up. I swear, Genevieve, there was no collusion between me and your manager, or whatever it was that you thought was going on. I genuinely just wanted to get to know you better, lass. Since I met you, I—” He shakes his head, running one hand through his copper hair. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my bloody mind, is what it is.”

He looks at me, and I’m startled to see what I could swear is desire in his dark green eyes. Desire , when I’m standing here in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, desperately in need of a shower, hanging onto my crutches for dear life. It doesn’t make sense to me—at best, we’re two people with a shocking amount of chemistry between us, but chemistry like that thrives on perfection, on lust. There’s nothing perfect or seductive about me right now, and yet Rowan is still looking at me like a man in a desert staring at a mirage.

“Please, just go,” I whisper. “I can’t—I can’t deal with this right now. You’re right, I’m pretty sure Chris isn’t home, and I need to get upstairs and shower, and?—”

Rowan steps into the apartment before I can stop him, with the kind of single-minded determination that I saw yesterday, as if by me giving him something he can fix, I’ve suddenly solved whatever it was he was trying to work out in his head. The door closes behind him, and he bends suddenly, sweeping me up into his arms before I can stop him as my crutches clatter to the floor.

“What on earth are you doing?” I squeak as he lifts me against his chest. “Rowan?—”

“Ah, now you’re finally saying my name.” I can feel the smirk on his face as he carries me toward the stairs, and every way I can think of to resist flies out of my head as the feeling of being held in his arms sinks in. He’s warm and strong, his chest broad, that woodsy scent of his cologne and the warmer, slightly salty scent of his skin underlying that. My head spins, and I breathe him in deeply without meaning to. “I’m taking you upstairs,” he continues. “So you don’t fall and make things worse, aye? And then I’ll bring you back down when you’re done. And if your asshole of a boyfriend comes home, I’ll deal with him too.”

“You’re trespassing?—”

“Isn’t this your apartment too, lass?” He looks at me, and I feel my cheeks flush. It’s not—not really. I’m not on the lease. I just live here because Chris moved me in a few months into our relationship. It never bothered me before, but suddenly I feel ashamed of it, as if I failed to make sure of some fundamental part of my own independence. And I suppose I have. I let myself get caught up in what I wanted the relationship to be and failed to see it for what it really was.

“If he finds you here, he’ll call the cops?—”

“I’m Padraigh Gallagher’s only son,” Rowan says with a smile as he nudges open the door to the bedroom, carrying me inside. My cheeks flush deeper at being in here with him, and my face heats even more as he carries me to the bathroom, and I remember what I imagined lying in that tub, not all that long ago. “The police won’t do a thing to me, lass.”

The confidence in his voice is sexier than it should be. This is what a man with real power looks like, I think, as Rowan gently sets me down, next to the sink counter so that I can lean against it. “I’ll just get the water started, and then I’ll leave you be,” he says. “I’ll be right outside.”

When he steps out, I slowly get undressed, frustrated with how difficult even that is. Rowan got the water started in the tub for me, since I can’t get my cast wet in a shower, and I slowly limp towards it, sinking into the hot water awkwardly. I try not to think about how Rowan is just outside as I bathe as quickly as I can, or how I thought of him while lying in this same bath and sipping wine, coming harder than I have in years at the thought of him.

Drying off is even more laborious. I wrap a towel around myself, hobbling out of the bathroom, and Rowan jumps up the moment he sees me, as if to come help. And then he freezes for a split second, his gaze sweeping over me. I have a sudden, visceral awareness of what I must look like, in just a towel, my hair wet and clinging to my shoulders. He swallows hard, his throat moving, and I see pure lust darken his gaze as his hands flex at his sides.

“Lass—” he breathes, and I go very still. I feel as if I’m being watched by some great cat, or a wolf, something that might pounce on me, devour me, and eat me whole if I move too quickly. My heart thumps in my chest, my breathing suddenly shallow, and I lick my lips nervously. I see Rowan’s gaze drop to my mouth, and I see him shudder.

“I just need to get dressed,” I whisper.

“I—oh. Of course.” He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic that I’m starting to recognize. “I’ll—I’ll just step out. Call when you want to go back downstairs. If you want—” The heat and confidence of a moment ago is gone, and I can see that he’s remembered where he is and what he’s doing. I realize, with a sudden wave of insight into this man that I barely know, that caring for someone is something he’s not used to. This is a man who is charming, gorgeous, confident, powerful—one who has probably had his pick of women all his life and has enjoyed them all, but what he’s doing right now is uncharted territory for him.

Which makes me wonder… why is he doing it at all?

Rowan steps out, while I hobble to the closet and pull out a soft black polo dress that I can slip over my head. I grab a hair clip from the nightstand, putting my wet hair on top of my head, and then clear my throat, calling out.

“Rowan?”

The door opens and he peeks his head in, his composure returned and that familiar smirk on his face. “Call out my name like that again, lass.”

I frown at him. “On second thought, I might just stay up here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that really what you want?”

The banter between us feels so easy, so natural, that for just a moment I almost forget where we are—in a penthouse that I really have no claim over, where my boyfriend could come home at any moment. There’s nothing untoward going on here, but even I can admit that if Chris walked in on this, I’d need to explain that. It looks bad, and with the way things have been lately between Chris and me, that will be enough to spark a fight.

“No, I do want to go back down,” I admit. “I need to get something to eat.”

“As you wish.” Rowan grins, giving a mock bow, and then steps forward, sweeping me up into his arms again. I bite my lip, wishing it didn’t feel like it could be so easy to get used to this—that it didn’t feel so good .

He carries me back downstairs and to the kitchen, where I lean on my crutches as I look for something to eat. Rowan hesitates, and I look up at him, feeling a flicker of guilt as my resolve returns.

“I’m not saying I don’t… appreciate this,” I manage, taking a muffin out of a bowl on the counter and looking at Rowan. “But you need to go. This is only going to cause more problems with Chris if he finds out you’re here and… I can’t deal with this right now. I just?—”

“My offer still stands, lass.” Rowan looks at me, his eyes full of something that I can’t entirely place. It’s more than desire, I think, but I don’t know why. My life is chaos right now, in pieces all around me, and I can’t begin to parse out why this man is still interested in me.

A short, broken laugh spills from my lips.

“Why?” I blurt out. “This makes no sense, Rowan. Why would you have any interest in me now, especially?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“That…that alone tells me you were never really interested in the ballet!” I splutter. “You just took an interest in me and used it as a way to get closer to me. Because if it was the ballet you were interested in patronizing, if it was the idea of being with the prima that attracted you, you wouldn’t want me now! My career is ruined , Rowan.”

“Lass—” He starts to speak, but I cut him off.

“It’s over. At least, I’ll never get back to where I was. I might dance again, but never at the level I was. I have no idea what happens next. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that my relationship is falling apart—you can see that for yourself, since you’re the one here helping me and my boyfriend is nowhere to be seen. And who knows what happens now? The thing that made Chris want me, the reason he was attracted to me in the first place, is gone, and…”

I break off, horrified as my throat tightens and I realize that I’m about to burst into tears. That’s the last thing I want right now, in front of Rowan, but I’m afraid that if this conversation goes on much longer, I’m not going to be able to stop.

“The only thing that I had to offer, the only thing special or interesting about me—is damaged. Destroyed forever, maybe,” I choke out. “And if I hadn’t been distracted, if I?—”

“If I played some role in that, taibhseach , I’m sorry for it,” Rowan says gently. “I never meant to cause you any grief. But your dancing isn’t the only thing you have to offer, Genevieve. I imagine it’s far from it.”

The way he says it wrenches something in my chest, and I feel my eyes burn with tears. “I don’t know if that’s true,” I whisper. “But I need you to go, Rowan. I can’t do this right now?—”

My heart drops into my stomach when I hear the sound of the door opening before Rowan can respond. I know it’s Chris before he even walks in—no one else has the keys to the penthouse.

“What the fuck, Genevieve?” Chris’s voice echoes through the entryway, loud and angry, and I feel every muscle in my body tense. I drop the muffin I was holding onto the counter, turning as quickly as I can to refute whatever he’s making up in his head about what’s happening right now—forgetting for a moment that I’m injured. I’m not used to not being able to move the way I want to, yet, and I stumble, grabbing onto the edge of the counter as I nearly fall.

I feel a strong, broad hand at my waist, and I know it’s Rowan. I can smell his woodsy scent, and I hear his low, accented voice behind me as his fingers curl against me, ever so briefly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and for a moment—one fleeting moment—I want to lean into the possibility that could be true.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Chris snarls, striding forward into the kitchen. He closes the distance between us, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen him. His face is already slightly reddened from the sun—he’s wearing a pair of slim khaki shorts and a polo, the kind of thing he wears when he goes out drinking with his friends—and it flushes even deeper as he grabs Rowan’s shoulder and shoves him back, away from me.

I slump against the counter, turning to look at both men. Rowan’s face is flushed now too, his eyes sparking with anger, and I see his hands clench into fists.

“Rowan, just go ,” I hiss, desperate for this not to turn into a fight. “I told you, I don’t want you here,” I add, more for Chris’s benefit than anything else. I don’t know if it’s true any longer, but right now, all I want is for this not to escalate further.

“Lass—Genevieve—” Rowan looks at me, and I see worry clear as day in his eyes. Worry for me .

“Just fucking leave!” I stare at him, silently begging him to listen to me, and he takes a slow step back.

“You heard the lady,” Chris growls. “I’m telling you too. Get the fuck out.”

“ Go ,” I hiss, as Rowan hesitates for a moment longer. “I don’t want you here.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe me. But he backs up, looking once more between Chris and me before he shakes his head as if to clear it and starts toward the door.

I hear it open, hear him step out into the hall. I glance toward the door, and before I can say anything at all to Chris, the stinging blow of a broad hand striking my cheek knocks every thought out of my head.

My head snaps to one side, and I let out a cry, nearly losing my balance as I grab the countertop tighter, the edge of it digging into my palm. For a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. No one has ever hit me before. The burn of it, stinging across my cheek, sends every other thought spinning out of my head—right up to the moment when I hear a curse in Rowan’s deep brogue next to me, and hear the hard thump of a fist meeting flesh.

Dazed, I turn slowly to see Rowan standing next to me, breathing hard. He shakes his fist out, looking down at where Chris is lying on the floor, groaning. Rowan lunges forward, grabbing the front of Chris’s shirt as he delivers one more hard punch to Chris’s jaw, and Chris drops back as Rowan lets go of the shirt—out cold.

It takes me a second to realize that—that Rowan knocked him out. I’m not used to this kind of violence. I grip the edge of the counter, feeling my knees go weak, and Rowan looks up at me, taking two quick steps to where I’m standing. He reaches out, his eyes still burning with fury, and I flinch without meaning to as he goes to touch my chin.

“Easy, lass,” he says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see—” He sucks in a breath between his teeth, and I wince.

“How bad is it?” I whisper. My cheek is throbbing, the burn still uncomfortable, and Rowan looks at it for a moment longer before meeting my eyes.

“It might bruise,” he says, and every word is tight with anger. “I should fuckin’ kill him for laying a hand on you?—”

“That seems like an overreaction.” My voice is shaky, though, even as I say it, wobbling as I look back down at Chris. A low groan comes from his chest as he starts to stir, and I flinch again.

Rowan tenses, and I see him make a sudden, snap decision. Before I can say a word, he lifts me off my feet again, sweeping me into his arms the same way he did earlier as he starts to stride toward the front door.

“What are you doing!” I exclaim, twisting against his chest. He feels distractingly good, but I force myself to focus on the fact that he’s taking me out of my apartment. Or the apartment, I suppose—there’s nothing about it that’s mine.

“I’m getting you out of here before the asshole wakes up,” Rowan growls. “We’ll figure the rest out later?—”

“There is no we !” I struggle against his grasp again, but I might as well be trying to wrestle a bear. While considerably smoother and leaner than the aforementioned animal, Rowan is much, much stronger than I am. I don’t have a chance.

He carries me all the way to the elevator, holding me against his chest as he presses the button for the ground floor. “Are you fucking kidnapping me?” I shriek, and Rowan looks down at me, amused.

“No, taibhseach . I’m getting you out of a situation that you clearly won’t help yourself out of.” His gaze flicks to my still-throbbing cheek, and his expression hardens. “I’m not about to let that excuse for a man take his anger out on you.”

With his free hand, he pulls out his phone, tapping the screen. “Rory? Bring the car around. Quickly. Aye, right now. Thanks.”

“Where are we going?” I twist against him, trying to get down—even though I have no idea how I’d stand or go anywhere on my own without him helping me, which only infuriates me more, but Rowan keeps me effortlessly held against his chest with only the one arm. “Rowan!”

“Somewhere safe. We’ll talk then.” His mouth thins as he carries me out of the elevator when we reach the ground floor, and I stare at him, unable to believe how utterly high-handed he’s being about all of this.

“Rowan, I can?—”

“You can what?” He glances down at me. “You need my help right now, Genevieve. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“I have friends!” I spit out, glaring up at him. “I could call them?—”

He raises an eyebrow as he steps out of the building, toward a waiting town car. “Are you going to call them? The truth, taibhseach. ”

I press my lips together, still glaring daggers at him. He barely knows me, but he seems to have me pegged when it comes to that, at least.

Gently, Rowan deposits me into the car, following me in. The locks engage before I can get out, and I stare at him in horror.

“This is kidnapping, now.”

“No, lass, I believe it might be called an intervention.” His mouth quirks at one corner in a half-smile, and how handsome he looks only serves to stoke my anger further.

“Interventions are something friends do,” I spit. “We’re not friends, Rowan.”

“Aye, but we could be.” He grins. “Save your ire, Genevieve. We’ll talk when we get to my place.”

“Where are we going?” It sounds like an accusation, the way I say it, but I’m also curious. I know as little about this man as he does about me, for all that he’s inserted himself into my life, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of place he’d choose to live in.

“I’ve rented a place of my own. My father wants to keep me close, since I’ve come back, and I’ve mostly been abiding by his wishes. But I need a bit of space now and again, so I had Rory go out and scout me a place.” He gestures toward the driver, a man who doesn’t look much older than Rowan, with dark hair and an easy smile on his face.

“And that’s where we’re going?”

Rowan nods, his gaze flicking to my cheek again. “Is that the first time this has happened, milseán ?” he asks quietly, and I bite my lip, nodding.

“Yes.” The word comes out hushed, small, and I hate how ashamed I sound. Like it was my fault. But a part of me can’t help but think that it was. “I shouldn’t have let you into the apartment. I should have known better?—”

“Hush, lass,” Rowan says sharply. “You’re not at fault for a man striking you, do you understand me? There’s no justification for it, and I won’t hear any.” His jaw tightens. “We’re almost there.”

The car pulls into an underground garage, and Rory parks, coming around to open the door for us. Rowan slides out first, helping me out, and as much as I hate that I need to let him, I know I’m not going anywhere completely under my own power. My ankle is throbbing, and I’m reminded that I haven’t taken any pain medicine yet this morning. I can feel the dull ache of hunger too, from not having eaten yet, but the panicked nausea from everything that’s happened so far this morning is overlaying it somewhat.

Rowan scoops me up again, carrying me into the building and to another elevator, and I blink when he pulls out a keycard and taps it against the reader. “Another penthouse?” I roll my eyes. “You wealthy men really are all the same.”

“Hush, lass,” Rowan says sharply, his gaze narrowing as he looks down at me. “I’d forgive you a lot, taibhseach , but I won’t hear you comparing me to that asshole I laid out earlier. I’m not the same as him.”

“He never kidnapped me,” I point out, but I know it’s a weak comparison. Rowan knows it too, because I see irritation flare in his eyes. I’m getting under his skin, and a part of me wants to keep poking and prodding. Fighting with him feels like a release, like a way to get out all of the pressure trapped inside of me, the clawing emotions—and I know that’s not healthy. But we seem to bring it out in each other.

Rowan carries me down the hall, tapping another key, and opens the door. When we step in, I’m faced with yet another grand penthouse apartment—but this one couldn’t be more different from Chris’s.

Everything in Chris’s that was cold and sterile is warm and welcoming here. The floors are a warm wood, with large tufted rugs in earthy colors stretched out in various spots—one by the two tobacco leather couches in the living area, another nestled in front of a large bookcase and a wood-and-iron bar cart. There are several large windows in the living area, and a huge one to the far left of the open-concept living room, where I see an indoor pool that makes my eyes go wide.

It’s nestled in the corner, with white stone steps leading up to the water, overlooking a scenic view of the city. “This is ridiculous,” I manage, when I find my voice, and Rowan chuckles as he carries me to one of the couches.

“It is a bit, isn’t it? But it’s different from what I was used to back in Ireland. I thought, if I was going to be back in the States, I might as well enjoy something different, aye?” He sets me down, and I look up at the ceiling, seeing exposed beams in a warm shade of wood. This place, while every bit as luxurious as Chris’s—maybe even more so—has a warmth to it that instantly makes me feel more at home.

“Now let me look at you, taibhseach ,” he says, sinking down next to me as he reaches for my face, and I pull away instinctively, remembering in a rush how insane this all is.

“No.” I scoot away from him on the couch, holding up my hands. “Don’t touch me.” Warning bells are going off in my head—we’re alone, in his apartment, and I’m feeling exceptionally fragile. Even now, in this situation, I can feel the magnetic pull of attraction between us, feel his warmth and scent and muscled body drawing me in, and I shake my head, putting as much space as I can manage between us. “This is insane, Rowan. Do you not understand that you keep meddling? You pursued me, even knowing I didn’t need or want a new patron. You showed up before my performance. You showed up at the hospital , and then you didn’t leave. You came to my boyfriend’s apartment unannounced, waltzed in, and then you knocked him out ?—”

“When he hit you,” Rowan reminds me, his voice deadly quiet. “Once was bad enough, Genevieve, but who knows if he would have stopped there? That type of man—” He draws in a breath. “I saved you.”

“I don’t want to need saving!” I exclaim, and he shakes his head.

“Aye, maybe that’s true, but you seem to need it all the same, lass. What about him leaving you stranded at the hospital? What about him leaving you without a bit of help, no way to get upstairs, no way to?—”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now.” I look at Rowan, despair filling my chest and making it hard to breathe. “I can’t go back there, not after?—”

“No, you can’t,” he agrees. “He’s a danger to you now, for certain. But he already was, milseán .” Rowan shakes his head, looking at me as if trying to get me to understand. “From everything I’ve seen of him, this was a cork waiting to pop. He was building up to this, lass, and even if I hadn’t come by?—”

“But you did.” I let out a slow breath. “You keep coming by, and things keep happening?—”

“You should have left him already,” Rowan says, but there’s nothing accusatory in his voice. It’s gentle, almost soothing, and I close my eyes.

“I could go stay with my friend Dahlia, or Evelyn, but they’re going to want to know why?—”

“So tell them.” Rowan looks at me, confused, and I shake my head.

“Their husbands are Bratva. Evelyn’s husband is Dimitri Yashkov, pakhan of the Bratva here. Dahlia’s husband is his brother. They’d kill Chris if they knew what he did?—”

“I’d say he’d be deserving of it,” Rowan says tightly. “I’m all for you telling them, lass.”

“That’s insane!” I look up at him. “What Chris did was awful, but I don’t want him dead . I just want?—”

“What do you want, Genevieve?” Rowan’s voice is oddly calm, almost as if he’s considering something. When I look at him, his eyes are narrowed, focused in on me. “Tell me.”

“Right now, I just—” I swallow hard. “I never want to see Chris again.” My eyes well up with tears, and I fight to keep them back, but one drips from my lashes, sliding down my cheek. “I want to feel safe.”

Rowan takes a deep breath, and when I look up again, his emerald gaze is dark with conviction.

“I have a solution, if you’ll hear it.”

I shake my head, sure that I already know what he’s going to say. But a part of me is curious. “Fine.” I meet his eyes. “What is it?”

He smiles, ever so slightly. “Marry me.”