Claiming Genevieve

22. Rowan

22

ROWAN

G enevieve is asleep when I emerge a little while later, curled up under the cashmere throw. I sink down across from her, watching her for a long moment until I, too, finally drift off into a restless sleep.

When I wake up, it’s to the sensation of the plane touching down, and a feeling that I’ve both slept too long and not enough. I blink open my sticky eyes to see that it’s daylight out, though the heavy, cloudy daylight that I’ve grown used to over the years and missed deeply. Genevieve is awake, too, curled up in the seat across from me still with a book, and I see a tray of various picked-at breakfast foods sitting on the table between us.

She sets the book down as the plane slows, and I rub a hand over my face. “I’m sorry,” I tell her thickly. “I should have woken you up and let you know there was a bedroom you could have slept in. I fell asleep before I could.”

“It’s fine.” Genevieve shrugs. “I slept alright. And it was a long night.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and my fingers curl against my palm, aching to touch her. There’s still the better part of a week before I’ll be able to have her again, and last night did nothing to help the situation. I can feel my cock pressing uncomfortably against the front of my zipper with the usual ferocity of mornings, but there’s not much I can do about it right now. We’re going to be getting ready to get off the plane any moment.

Rory collects our things while I walk with Genevieve out to the waiting car on the tarmac. There are five guys on motorcycles scattered a hundred or so yards away, and Genevieve pauses, looking curiously out toward where they’re idling.

“Why are they here?” she asks, and I chuckle, opening the car door for her.

“Security detail. There’s a gang back in Manhattan that does…business for us. The Sons of Hell. They have a chapter out here, and they do some business for us as well, and handle security if any of the Gallagher family are in residence at the estate. There’ll be some more guys at the estate, trading off shifts, and some other hired security as well.”

Genevieve glances at them once more, then slips into the car. She’s sitting very still when I slide in on the other side, and I tense when I see her reach into her purse.

“Your phone isn’t there,” I tell her quietly, and she shoots me a piercing look.

“Why?”

“Because we can’t risk Chris tracing it—if he does have any kind of connections capable of doing that. Evelyn and Dahlia are aware that you’re safe,” I add, before she can say anything else. “They know you’re here in Galway with me. I’ll make sure you can update them on things once we’re settled and I can get you a clean phone.”

Genevieve presses her lips together. “I should have known better,” she mutters, looking out of the window, and I don’t have the heart to ask her what she means by that.

Most likely, she means better than to have accepted that marriage proposal. Better than to have ever gotten involved with me. And it would hurt too much to hear her say that out loud.

Instead, I remain silent as the driver takes us to the estate.

I can see the expression on Genevieve’s face as we approach, her eyes widening as she takes in the verdant green all around us, the rolling hills and low, shambling stone fences, with stately manors and old-architecture houses sprinkled throughout. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask finally, breaking the silence between us, and she nods.

“It really is. I can see why you didn’t want to leave.”

“It’s a bit chilly this time of year still, even in early summer—and windy. We can go and buy some clothes for you,” I suggest. “The estate staff might not be prepared for us yet, so we could give them some relief from having to feed us tonight and go out to the pub for dinner. Do a little shopping, have dinner and drinks, and come back.”

Genevieve looks at me sideways. “That sounds like you’re asking me on a date, Rowan.”

“Would that be so bad?” There’s more vulnerability in the question than I want there to be, more of my naked, unending need for her than I want her to hear right now. But with her, I can’t seem to keep up the same walls that I’m used to.

She presses her lips together, and I can tell that she’s still upset with me. For what, I’m not exactly sure—maybe for all of it. For the obsession that started that night at the party that’s gotten us here. For not leaving her alone when she asked. For coming to see her before the show, for convincing her to marry me, for taking her away from what remains of her life that’s familiar while so much of it is upended—and sweeping her away to another country.

“I would have liked to bring you here under different circumstances,” I say quietly. “Ones where we’re not running from something. I’d have liked to bring you here to just… be.”

Genevieve’s look turns sharp. “Why?”

“Because—” I hesitate, struggling for an answer that will make sense to her. Everything I can think of to say seems to reveal the things that I feel that I know will only make her shut down further. Things that have no place in this arrangement of ours.

“This isn’t real, Rowan.” Her voice is a knife to the heart, as if she heard everything I was just thinking. “None of it is.”

She turns away again, her eyes fixed on the view passing us by, and I swallow hard—past the lump in my throat and the fist in my chest, squeezing my heart until it hurts.

The car pulls up into the circular, cobblestone courtyard in front of the estate house. I see Genevieve’s eyes widen as she sees it, her lips parting slightly, and I can’t help the small smile that tilts my lips at her reaction.

The house is stunning, I know that. Even as many times as I’ve seen it, even after living here for years, I’m always struck anew by how beautiful it is. It’s an old-fashioned manor house, made of aged gray stone, with large arched wooden doors at the entrance and arched panel windows evenly spaced along the rest of the front of the house. Ivy and roses climb over the stone without any real symmetry, allowed to grow to some extent as they please. It’s wild and beautiful, and the moment I step out of the car and take a breath, I feel like I’m coming home.

It’s the same feeling I have every time I kiss Genevieve. And when I turn to look at her, it takes everything in me not to pull her into my arms.

“This is incredible,” she breathes, looking around. A moment later, she shivers, and I quickly gesture toward the front door.

“Let’s get you inside. I’ll show you around, and then we’ll go out in a few hours to get you some clothes and go out to dinner. How does that sound?”

She bites her lip, but nods, and follows me inside.

That same expression is on her face as we walk into the manor. Inside, it feels warm and homey despite the luxurious furnishings—all old, well-kept dark wood and rich dark flooring, with wallpaper in deep greens and lavender throughout the house, often with dark, subtle floral patterns. Every textile in the house is made of natural fibers—linen, wool, and cashmere, and the house itself smells richly of wood and furniture polish and that particular warm, smoky scent of an old house with a working fireplace.

“It’s like something out of a fantasy,” Genevieve murmurs, looking all around. “This is your home?” Her lips twitch slightly, as if a smile is trying to break free. “It doesn’t exactly fit the playboy persona I’m always being told about.”

I chuckle, although it doesn’t have much humor. I enjoyed my reputation once, but since I’ve met Genevieve, I’ve wished time and again that I could shed it, like an old coat that no longer fits. “I have an apartment in Galway,” I inform her. “A bachelor pad of sorts. I rarely spent the night there, to be honest.” Swallowing hard, I drum my fingers against the wood of the staircase as we pause next to it. “I’ve never brought a woman here, Genevieve. To my family home. Never.”

I see her go very still, working through what this might mean to me. Her chin tips up, her lips thinning, and she gives a small nod. “Well. Maybe I won’t be here long, either.”

My chest clenches at that, but I do my best to not let it show. “This isn’t our only estate in Ireland,” I tell her, focusing on family history as a way to distract myself from how her comment made me feel. “We have an estate outside Dublin and Belfast.”

“Do you have apartments in those cities as well?” Genevieve asks, and I can’t help but think I hear the smallest bit of acid in her tone.

“Why, lass?” I pause at the landing of the second floor. “Jealous?”

The smallest flush appears on her cheeks, and she narrows her eyes at me. “No. Just curious.”

“Sounds a bit jealous to me.” I grin at her. “Don’t worry, taibhseach . I won’t be entertaining any other lasses but you, while we’re here.”

“You have a week before you’ll be ‘entertaining’ me,” she returns sharply.

“Aye.” I swallow hard. “I don’t need the reminder, lass.”

She shrugs, looking down the hall. “I assume there are enough bedrooms here that we don’t need to share one?”

Another jab to the chest, that fist tightening. I knew in the back of my head that she’d likely ask that, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. “Yes,” I manage finally, my voice tighter than I’d like it to be. I can see the look she shoots me—I know she heard it, that she knows how much I want her.

Well, it’s not as if I’ve been bloody trying to hide it.

“Good.” Genevieve bites her lip. “Which one is mine, then? I’d like to get a shower.”

My entire body tightens at the thought of her naked and wet in the shower, soap sliding down all the lines of her body that I’m aching to trace with my lips and tongue. Like I’m a fucking teenager again, getting hard just at the thought of a woman.

“I—” I clear my throat. “I’ll have to ask the housekeeper. Likely she just made up one room for us, the master, on account of—us being married, and all. But I’ll ask her to make up a separate one for you.” I gesture down the hall. “In the meantime, use the master if you want to shower and change, lass. I won’t bother you.”

Genevieve hesitates for just a moment before nodding. “Alright. Just show me where to go. Someone will bring my things up?”

I nod. “There’s a full staff here, including a girl who will help you with whatever you need.” A grin tilts the corners of my lips. “ Banphrionsa .”

Genevieve narrows her eyes at me. “What does that mean?”

I chuckle, starting down the hall that leads to the master bedroom. “Princess.”

Genevieve snorts from behind me, but says nothing. She’s silent, right up until I push open the heavy wooden double doors that lead to the master bedroom, and we step inside.

“Oh,” she says softly, as we step into the expansive room.

It’s done in the same dark woods and deep greens that much of the rest of the manor is, with a large walk-in closet to the right of the room next to a huge antique wardrobe, and French doors that lead out to a balcony on the left. There’s an ensuite bathroom that I know will wow Genevieve as much as the rest of the room itself, but I can see what she’s fixated on—the huge stone fireplace at the foot of the four-poster, king-sized bed.

It was a mistake to come in here with her; I know that the moment I look from her to the bed and back again, my entire body tightening with pure, unfiltered lust as all of the things I’d like to do to her in that bed flash through my mind in an instant. And, just behind those thoughts, the near-painful knowledge that I will do one of those things to her in that bed, most likely, unless we end up back in New York within the week. Which is highly unlikely.

Almost everything else that I’m fantasizing about, though…

All of that is off-limits.

My jaw tightens as I do my best to ward off yet another uncomfortable erection, and wave in the general direction of the bathroom. “It’ll be all set up for you, lass. Most of what you need should be in there already, and the maid taking care of you will bring up the rest here shortly.” I pause, rubbing a hand against the back of my neck. “I’ll just—I’ll see you in a bit.”

There’s a moment of lingering awkwardness as I step away from her and out of the room, closing the door behind me. There’s no part of me that wants to walk away, but I know there’s no other choice right now.

Instead, I head downstairs to reluctantly talk to the housekeeper, Mrs. Brady, about making up a guest room for Genevieve. My chest aches just thinking about it. Before our marriage, I would’ve said I preferred sleeping alone.

But now, the thought of going to sleep without the sound of Genevieve’s soft breathing next to me, without the warm weight of her body filling the space in the bed next to mine, makes me feel achingly lonely. And the thought of waking up alone, without her there…

Mrs. Brady is, understandably, confused by the request. I mutter something about snoring and how my new wife needs her sleep, before asking a bit more firmly that she take care of it. The housekeeper gives me a suspicious look—she’s known me for far too long to give me the proper respect—but nods and goes off to find one of the staff to help her make up a guest bedroom.

I sink onto the mahogany leather couch in the living room, pouring myself a glass of whiskey and letting my head fall against the back of the seat. I have no idea how long we’ll be here. If it were up to me—forever. I’d never leave Ireland again, and Genevieve would stay here with me. But for all the power that comes with being the heir to the Irish mafia, I don’t have the power to give myself either of the things I really want.

I’ve spent my whole life up until now taking whatever I wanted. Having whatever I wanted. But my desires have changed, and unfortunately, now, getting what I want is no longer as easy as it once was.

Genevieve comes down nearly two hours later, wearing a pair of dark slim-cut jeans that fit her so perfectly it seems cruel, and a rust-colored silk blouse with sleeves cuffed at the wrists, pearls at her ears and throat. She left her hair loose, freshly washed and so shiny and soft that my palms itch to run my hands through it. She pauses at the doorway of the living room, looking at me as if she’s not quite sure what to say.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks finally. “Mrs. Brady showed me the guest room, and the maid—Clara?—helped me bring in my things. So I think I’m all settled.”

I glance at the time, and push myself up from the sofa. “Let me go upstairs and freshen up a bit as well. Feel free to have a drink or explore. I’ll be back down in about an hour.”

An hour later, I rejoin her, feeling a bit more clearheaded thanks to the time I spent in the shower, fantasizing about Genevieve there while giving myself the release I’ve desperately needed since this morning. All it takes is one look at her, though, and my desire comes roaring back as if I’ve never slaked it once in my life.

“Rory is waiting with the car,” she says, crossing the room to join me. “He let me know a few minutes ago.”

“Let’s go, then.” I want to offer her my arm, but I don’t. Instead, I simply walk out to the car, aware of her following close behind, the salty, herbal scent of her perfume filling my senses as we step out into the cool, windy late afternoon. It mingles with the clean, green scent of the slightly damp outdoors, as if Genevieve were made to be here. As if she’s already a part of these surroundings, just as I’ve always felt I was meant to be.

She’s quiet on the drive into the city. Rory is practically whistling in the driver’s seat, humming along to the music on the radio that he keeps turned low. I can tell he’s pleased to be back as well, and trying not to make it too obvious, given the circumstances. But Genevieve’s blank silence ends as we turn onto one of the roads leading into the city, her eyes widening as she lets out a soft, “Oh.”

I expected that response. I watch her take it in—the cobblestoned streets and brightly colored buildings, the shops a mixture of new and old. She leans closer to the window, and I feel a bright burst of satisfaction at seeing the pleasure she’s taking in her new surroundings. This city is close to my heart, and I love seeing her so enthralled with it already.

Rory drops us off a few blocks in, going to park the car before rejoining us. Genevieve frowns a little as I open her door and she steps out of the car, watching as he pulls away from the curb. “No security?” she asks curiously. “Not that I mind—I don’t like always having others around. I’m just surprised.”

I say nothing, just gesture down the row of traffic. A few cars back, two motorcycles are idling, waiting for the cars to move. Two more are ahead of us, parked to one side of the street. “There’s security,” I tell her, seeing her eyes widen. “They’re just blending in.”

Genevieve gives a small nod. “Oh,” she says softly. “I see.”

“But you won’t notice them. Just like you didn’t until I pointed them out.”

“Aren’t we safe here, though? From—” She hesitates, and I can tell how hard it is for her to say from Chris . She still can’t admit that her ex is the sort of person who would kill her for leaving him and marrying another man. The kind of man who would put a hit out on her.

Part of me empathizes with how she must feel. It can’t be an easy thing to realize that someone wants you dead, especially someone that you once shared a home and a bed with. But I can’t help the frustration that I feel, too. I need her to understand the danger that she’s in and not fight me when precautions need to be taken.

We wander through the shops for a few hours until dinnertime. Genevieve finds a soft wool cardigan that she purchases in a few colors at a shop that sells all handwoven Irish wool goods, as well as a boxy sweater that she instantly falls in love with, and a leather jacket that I can’t wait to see on her. We stop at an old bookstore that she’s enchanted with as soon as she sees it, before finally making our way down to the pub at the end of the street, which is already lively.

The scent of beer and fried food hits my nose the moment we step inside, the sound of live music filling the air around us. The pub is a large two-tiered building, with a large bar in the center of the first floor and tables scattered throughout, the stage and a small dance floor at one end. Upstairs, surrounded by a wood railing a shade darker than the walls and flooring, the second floor has more seating. There’s a large staircase leading up to the second floor, and a fireplace on the first floor, where I see a handful of empty tables. The pretty redheaded hostess who greets us leads us over to one of those, and I can see the flicker of delight in Genevieve’s face.

“Enjoying yourself, lass?” I ask with a bit of amusement, though I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying how charmed she is by all of this. This is my home, the place that I love, and seeing it all through her eyes—the estate, the landscape, the town, this pub that I’ve been to a hundred times, probably—brings with it a fresh appreciation of just how dear all of it is to me. It makes my chest ache, too, because I know I’ll have to leave it again. This is only a reprieve from the life I’ll have to go back to—sooner rather than later, I should hope. The longer we stay here, the longer Genevieve’s life is in danger, which casts a shadow over all of this.

She nods, sinking into one of the chairs as the hostess hands her a menu. “It’s lovely,” she says, glancing at the dancing flames in the fireplace. “I never really thought about visiting Ireland, if I’m being honest, but now I’m realizing I should have. It’s… different.”

I chuckle. “Different how, lass?”

Genevieve raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Fresher. Greener. A bit wilder. I always loved the city, but things have been so chaotic lately that being somewhere a bit quieter is…nice.” She looks at me curiously. “I’m surprised you love it so much, though. With your reputation, I’d think?—”

I raise an eyebrow. “I like drinking in pubs and flirting with beautiful women, both of which I can do plenty of here. Loud clubs and expensive bars have never been my thing, taibhseach . I’d prefer this to New York nightlife.”

“Oh.” She looks at me as if she’s seeing me a bit differently, before dropping her gaze to the menu. “What should I get to drink?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. “A Guinness, right? Since I’m in Ireland?”

I laugh at that. “Get whatever you like, lass. Are you usually a fan of beer?”

“I don’t think I’ve had beer more than once, at a party I ended up at in college,” Genevieve admits.

“You probably won’t like it, then.” I shrug. “But why not try? New experiences. You only get to be a tourist in a new place once, right?”

She laughs at that, and when the waitress comes back, she orders a Guinness, while I order a whiskey and ginger. I see her deliberate over the menu for a little while, before she seems to come to some decision that she’d been debating and orders fish and chips for dinner.

“I haven’t had fried food in—” She presses her lips together, thinking. “I don’t know. Since before college? My parents were pretty poor, so I couldn’t always stick to a ballerina’s diet. Lots of boxed mac n’ cheese and french fries.”

“This will be much better than that,” I assure her with a chuckle. “I can promise you that, lass.”

Our drinks arrive, and Genevieve looks at the heavy, dark beer that she’s handed with suspicion. She takes a small sip of it and makes a face that earns another laugh from me.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” I offer, and she shakes her head.

“No,” she says firmly. “I’m going to drink it.” She takes another sip, her expression still a little pained, and I can’t help but laugh again.

I love her. It’s the second time I’ve thought it today. The first time I brushed it away as an errant thought, but now, my chest tightens with painful alarm as I realize how true it is—and how little it matters. I watch her struggling to choke down a Guinness, a plate of fried food slid in front of her moments later, doing her best to fit in here and make the best of the situation we’re in—and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I love her.

I’ve never loved any woman before. None of them have ever infuriated or amused or entertained or charmed me as much as Genevieve has. None of them has ever made me feel this way. And it doesn’t fucking matter—because she doesn’t feel the same.

I sit there and watch her, my own meal of shepherd’s pie cooling as she squeezes lemon over her fish, and I wonder how I’m going to live without her when this is all over. How I’m going to live with the fact that I’ll have a child who will remind me of her, every day, and yet she’ll be gone. I’m suddenly furious with my father, more so than I ever have been before, for engineering this situation—for the fact that he thinks nothing of putting a child as a caveat in a betrothal agreement, like a bargaining chip instead of something to love.

I shouldn’t be surprised, though. It’s not as if he ever loved me.

Genevieve takes a bite of the fish and lets out a hum of pleasure, smiling. “It’s amazing,” she says, reaching for the beer and taking another small sip. “And the beer is better with food, I think.” She glances around the pub, a small smile at the edges of her mouth. “Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.”

Something twists in my chest at that small admission, and I force a smile, turning my attention to my own food. We eat mostly in silence, other than the crackling of the fire and the bright sound of the music coming from the stage, until we’re partway through dessert—a brown butter apple bread pudding.

Genevieve sets down her fork, taking the last sip of her beer, and I can see that she’s a little tipsy. She smiles, looking over my shoulder toward the band as they pick up a livelier tune and the dance floor begins to fill up. Her expression turns wistful, and I look at her, weighing my words before I speak.

“Do you want to dance?” I press my lips together, looking at her cautiously. “I know it’s not—but?—”

Genevieve sucks in a small breath through her nose. Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, and the look in her eyes turns into something more than wistful. There’s a look of yearning in her eyes— longing —and fuck , I wish she’d look at me like that.

“We shouldn’t,” she says finally. “My ankle?—”

“I’m sure it’d be fine for one dance. If you don’t want to, though—” I think she does. And I think it’s not about her ankle at all, but because she’s afraid she won’t be good at it any longer. That she’ll disappoint herself. “It’s not ballet,” I say quietly. “Even if you don’t know the steps, or misstep, you’d be expected to. You don’t know the dance.”

Her head snaps up, and she looks at me with surprise, as if she can’t believe that I picked up on what she was really feeling. “I’m a dancer,” she says, and then quickly corrects herself. “I was a dancer. I should be able to dance.”

“You don’t just automatically know every dance. Maybe you’re better at picking up on rhythm than others, or it comes more naturally, but—” I look at her, suddenly wanting her to give in. To try this, with me. It seems important, suddenly, that she try. That she not give up on this part of herself completely—and that I can be a part of it. “Let’s try, Genevieve. Milseán .”

She swallows, the long, graceful line of her throat shifting, and she looks uncertain. For a moment, I half think she’s going to bolt out of the pub, leaving me behind, and I’m fully prepared to chase after her if she does. But instead, she stands up, giving me a decisive look. “Alright.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I stand, too, following her to the dance floor, where couples are dancing in lively steps to the quick beat of the music, a circle of women spinning around as they laugh and miss their steps, tripping back to the edge of the floor. I reach for Genevieve as we step onto the dance floor, and when I take her hand, I feel the quick beat of her pulse in her wrist.

“I’ve got you,” I say quietly. “And we can go sit down anytime you like.”

Genevieve swallows hard, nodding, and then she starts to move.

It takes her a moment to catch the rhythm of the music. To my surprise, she lets me lead at first, until her feet catch up to mine, and then suddenly she’s dancing. We’re dancing, the sound of the fiddle bright in my ears as I see a smile start to spread over Genevieve’s lips, her pulse quick in her throat as I see her breathing speed up. Happiness fills her face for the first time since the accident, her body falling into something that, for her whole life, has been as natural to her as breathing, and I can feel it click back into place, feel the moment where she comes home to herself, just like being here feels like coming home to me.

Fuck , I don’t ever want to leave. The ache in my chest grows, mingling with the joy of having Genevieve here with me in this moment, sharing it with her, and the spreading desire that never seems to leave me for long when it comes to her.

She moves closer to me as the music slows a little, and she fills my senses. Her warmth, her scent, the feeling of her body brushing against mine. Desire floods me, but it’s more than just physical need. It digs down into the deepest part of me, and I don’t want to let her go.

But as the music slows and fades, Genevieve pulls back, stepping to the edge of the dance floor. “I shouldn’t push it,” she says quickly, looking away from me. “I haven’t done that in weeks. I’ll hurt my ankle if I’m not careful.”

“Of course.” I glance at her, making sure she’s not limping as we head back to the table. “You should definitely be careful.”

The silence falls between us again as we sit, ordering a second round of drinks, and the music picks back up. I see her watching the dance floor, a soft smile on her face, and I can’t help but think that I’d happily sit here forever like this—if it meant she kept smiling.

If it meant that I could keep her.