11. Ravenna
Ravenna
T he next day, I explore my new home. Cian’s house is more like a military fortress than a cozy living space.
Everything is white and grey, stone and stainless steel, it’s uninviting to say the least. At first glance, I’m unsure of how I might improve the place, but as I continue to wander, my imagination comes alive with the possibilities.
Of course, I’m not an interior designer, but I know for a fact that I’d like to hire one. ASAP.
This poor house is begging to come to life with some color. A fresh coat of paint on the walls would do wonders. Maybe replace the tile floors with wood?
I round a corner on the main floor and come face-to-face with Cian’s second-in-command, who was also his best man at the wedding. Wolfe.
Immediately, I stop. I don’t like the way he looked at me when we first arrived. There was something calculating and cold in his eyes.
Similar to how he’s looking at me right now from where he stands rooted in place.
“What?” I snap, irritated at how his stare makes me so uncomfortable.
His thick brows lift toward his hairline. “You really aren’t timid, are you? Any other woman encountering me alone in a hallway would at least pretend to be polite. For her own sake. It’s called self-preservation.”
“I don’t have any patience for rude men who stare.” I fold my arms, partly in annoyance but also to brace myself. Wolfe is not a small man. He’s brawny, older than Cian by at least a decade, and radiates danger. Celtic knot designs ink both sides of his neck.
I hate to think of how many people he’s murdered, many of them mi famiglia .
Wolfe takes one step closer, but I don’t budge. “I’m only staring because I’m trying to figure out what spell you’ve put on Cian. He hates women, especially red haired, pretty ones. Only tolerates them when they’re on their backs with their legs spread.”
His vulgar words slide beneath my skin. I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off.
“Whatever sorcery you’ve done to him, I want you to know that if he comes to any harm I will slit your throat myself. I’ll make all those terrible stories you’ve heard about us Irish come true for you.”
His threats give me pause. He’s afraid that I’m going to hurt Cian? I’d never do such a thing, at least not intentionally.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I assure him. Even if I don’t like this man, at least he seems to be utterly loyal to Cian.
“We’ll see about that, sorceress.” He strides past me, his shoulder bumping mine.
S tronzo .
Relieved that he didn’t try to assault me, I continue my exploration, this time being more aware of who’s around corners and lurking in hallways.
I poke my head into various rooms. Cian’s people must spend a lot of time here since there are multiple entertainment rooms with games or TVs, even a pool hall. It’s like a compound headquarters. Which, it actually might be just that.
Several buildings behind the main house hold numerous apartments. I wouldn’t dare go into them. But from what I figure, a lot of these men are single and live on the property. The compound is like one big fraternity.
When I enter a new wing of the house and get to a locked door, it piques my curiosity. What kind of room does Cian want to keep under lock and key, away from his comrades?
Glancing up and down the empty corridor, I remove a pin from my hair and bend it into the shape I need to pick this type of lock.
Since I learned this skill when I was thirteen, I’ve always worn my hair either pinned back at the sides, half up, or in a bun.
That way my tool of choice is always with me, and at the same time hidden.
My heartbeat pounds in my chest as I inhale deep breaths to keep my hands steady. My senses strain to detect any sudden sound or presence. I certainly don’t want to get caught. Not by these people.
So far I’ve been lucky. No one has ever caught me picking a lock, not even my family knows that I have this skill. If they did, Papa would have taken away all of my hairpins ages ago. He has far too many skeletons in his closets to be comfortable with me snooping around.
The mechanism finally clicks and I turn the handle, quietly opening the door. Victory whooshes through me as I step inside.
Closing the door behind me, I switch on a light, illuminating the mysterious room. Which turns out to be… a library.
Unlike the rest of the house, this space has charm.
Floor to ceiling wooden bookshelves occupy three of the walls.
Set into the fourth wall is a fireplace and two tall, narrow windows, the only source of natural light.
A sofa and two leather chairs occupy the middle of the room. There’s even a couple of floor lamps.
It’s cozy. The perfect place to grab a book and curl up in front of the fire to read.
Instantly, I’m in love. This is my favorite room in the house.
My fingertips gravitate toward the long rows of spines. I read some of the titles as I pass by them. Business and finance, history, thrillers, there’s a bit of everything. Old cloth-bound tomes stand beside mass market paperbacks.
Elena’s always been the bookish one, but I read on occasion. I’m just picky, and prefer non-fiction. History’s by far my favorite subject, especially New England history pre-and-post the Revolutionary War. Though Elena has tempted me into reading a couple of her epic Romantasy books.
Those were hot. I can see why people enjoy fiction. It’s a wonderful escape from reality.
A glass case set into the shelf at eye level catches my attention.
Reading the open title page, I gasp. It’s an English first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, published in London in 1846.
The case contains two volumes, which means it’s a complete set. Rare, and extremely expensive.
While I don’t read a lot of fiction, I absolutely love old books. The older and rarer the better. Something about all the history they’ve been through makes my heart flutter.
My fingers glide across the glass separating me from these most precious of objects. This edition is sure to have illustrations.
I look around for the case’s closure and find a small padlock. That shouldn’t be too difficult to open, but maybe the key–
“I warned you about poking around.” A deep rumble sounds right behind me, and I spin to face Cian, my heart in my throat. “Now I’ll have to kill you.”
My gaze collides with Cian's stoney expression. My lips part in shock. He’s impossible to read. He did tell me not to poke around, but that was on our wedding day, before we got to know each other. Surely he doesn’t mean it anymore.
He places his hands on the bookcase, one on either side of my head, and leans in, trapping me in place.
My pulse stutters, but I’m not sure if it’s with excitement or uncertainty.
“Do you have a death wish? Or do you simply enjoy disobeying me, broc meala? ”
“I…”
He can’t be serious . Is he? Have I really overstepped?
“This is my private library. That door is locked for a reason. But you don’t think the rules apply to you, do you? Locked doors are only an obstacle, is that it?” Heat wafts from his huge body.
I swallow hard. He is serious. He’s going to punish me for this, isn’t he?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, a tremor running through me.
“How sorry?” He presses his body flush against mine, and I can feel the hardness of his cock. My eyes grow round. This is turning him on? Maybe that’s a good thing since he told me he gets off on being in control, but not on inflicting pain.
So this is… an act. Foreplay?
Now that I understand the game we’re playing, I whimper. “Please. I’m begging you. I didn’t mean any harm.”
He groans, biting his lower lip. “Fuck, I love it when you beg. Beg for mercy, baby.”
“Please have mercy on me.” Slowly, I sink to my knees. Keeping my gaze trained on his, I unfasten his dark jeans, freeing his cock. The weight of it in my hand is enough to make me salivate. Lust fogs my senses. “I’m begging you. Please.”