Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Ishouldn’t be smiling.
That was the thought circling my head as the door to our suite closed behind us. After everything that had happened—The Black Ledger, my father, the safe house—the happiness clashed with everything else, as if I were tempting fate.
I slipped out of my heels near the door, toes curling against the cool floor, a faint buzz of wine warming my veins. My cheeks felt flushed, my head pleasantly tipsy, as my body hummed in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Not careless. Just…upbeat. Temporarily lifted above the wreckage.
Lucian had done that.
He’d treated me like a princess tonight, walking me through Madrid with his hand at my lower back or wrapped around my waist, always close without caging me in. We’d had a simple conversation all evening, as if we were on a date instead of running from all the fallout.
Not once had he asked about my time in Spain, the monastery, or my father.
That alone was a gift.
The dress delivered for me—a pretty little black number that fit perfectly—had been ideal for the fancy restaurant he’d chosen.
The fabric caught the light in a way that whispered expensive, even to someone like me who didn’t know labels.
I shrugged off the wool coat that Lucian had insisted I wear and draped it over the chair.
Lucian, on the other hand, had stayed on alert, only sipping from one glass of the bottle he’d bought for us.
He’d loosened up just enough to laugh at something I said as we talked about how living in Manhattan was the best. He even smiled when I teased him about his Irish-American accent, pronouncing our order in Spanish.
But his eyes had never stopped moving to the doors and exits.
Even now, back in the suite, he checked the lock before turning to me.
I caught him watching me as I wandered farther into the room.
That look in his eyes, the quiet possessiveness, made my tummy flutter.
I didn’t want the night to end.
But when Lucian had insisted we couldn’t stay out longer, that it wasn’t safe, I hadn’t argued. Not because I was afraid.
Because I trusted him.
And that realization—comforting and dangerous all at once—settled deep in my chest as I turned to face him, wine-warm and smiling despite myself.
Lucian shrugged out of his suit jacket.
The black leather double holster crisscrossed over the back of his white dress shirt, the two pistols resting tight against his ribs.
I’d known he was armed. He’d kept me tucked close to his side the moment we stepped out of the car to enter the restaurant.
I just hadn’t realized how armed.
My breath hitched before I could stop it.
He glanced up and smirked.
The leather straps ran under his arms and were anchored to his belt, built to move with him, not slow him down. There was nothing decorative about the holster; it was just lethal purpose.
He reached down and rolled his sleeves to his forearms. Then he drew the first gun, checked the magazine, ensured the chamber was clear, and laid it on the table. The second followed the same methodical routine.
Then his hand went to his belt.
He unlatched it and pulled the thick black leather free in one steady motion. He folded it into a loop and snapped it sharply in the air.
The crack was loud, making me jump.
A low chuckle came from him, entirely unnecessary.
He was showing off.
“Ever handled a weapon before?” he asked.
“No.”
He tugged off the holster, dropped it onto the table, and picked up one of the guns, removing the magazine and checking the chamber once more, even though he’d just done it.
“I’ve always been fascinated by them,” he continued. “Since I was a kid back on the farm.”
The image of him, younger, running around barefoot in the Irish countryside—hands calloused, eyes already dangerous—did something reckless in my chest.
“Come here, my little bird,” he said, locking the slide back and inspecting it. “Let me show you.”
I hesitated only a second before moving next to him.
“When we get back home,” he added casually, “I’ll see that you’re properly trained. There’s a shooting range I belong to in the city.”
When we get back home.
My pulse skipped a beat.
He hadn’t hesitated. He’d spoken as if I were already part of the plan—already going back with him.
Before I could untangle what that meant, he stepped behind me, arms coming around my sides, his chest brushing against my back. He placed the gun in my hand and closed his fingers over mine, adjusting my grip.
“This,” he said, his mouth near my ear, “is the safety. Always check it yourself. Never trust anyone else’s word.”
His thumb flicked the safety down with a metallic click. “Keep your finger off the trigger unless you intend to fire. And always assume there’s a round in the chamber—even when you think there isn’t.”
The weight of the gun surprised me. It was heavier than I expected.
He helped me angle it toward the window.
“Weapons demand respect,” he murmured.
He shifted his stance behind me, bracing my arms properly. Then—
“Bang!” he shouted as he jerked the gun up and back in a recoiling motion.
I jumped and barked out a laugh, my heart slamming against my ribs.
He laughed too and eased the gun from my fingers, his thumb shifting the safety back into place before setting it on the table.
Then he turned me toward him and wrapped his arms around me.
His hands slid low along my back, drawing me up against him.
The bulge in his pants was obvious, pressed against my stomach.
My breath hitched.
I didn’t comment.
Neither did he.
“I like making you smile,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to my lips.
His hand rose and framed my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek while his fingers curved to the base of my braid, tilting my face toward his.
“You’re beautiful.”
My body reacted before my mind could, as heat flared between my thighs.
His mouth was right there. Close enough that I could feel his breath.
I wanted him to kiss me so badly that I couldn’t drag my eyes away from his mouth.
The memory of me sneaking into his bedroom slammed into me.
The way he’d made me come from nothing other than kissing and teasing my breasts while my clit rocked against his hard cock had been such a shock.
I still couldn’t believe how the nick from the knife and the sting of his bite on my nipple had lit me up so much. Was I nuts for liking his roughness?
My lower lip trembled.
He saw it.
His thumb brushed over it slowly.
My mouth fell open in a silent gasp.
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he pulled me closer—but instead of taking my mouth the way I wanted, he pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Damn.
He leaned back. “It’s late. You need your rest.”
I swallowed the disappointment and nodded, because what else was I supposed to do?
“Go first,” he added. “Get ready for bed.”
I stepped back, forcing my expression to be neutral as the clothes on the table caught my attention. A large black T-shirt caught my eye. I picked it up and headed toward the bathroom, still pouting internally about the kiss that hadn’t happened.
I don’t understand why I’m so attracted to him.
There was something about him that set off a chain reaction under my skin. Every reasonable thought disappears the second he touches me. Something about this man lights up every nerve in me. For better or worse, I react without control.
His touch does something to me that no other man ever has.
I closed the bathroom door behind me.
The vanity lights in the bathroom were bright as I stared at my reflection. The dress, the makeup, the shoes were all perfect, and it astounded me that they’d been delivered within hours of our arrival, as if it were nothing. Lucian snapped his fingers, and things happened.
I’d met powerful men before. Or at least men who thought they were powerful. Men who used force, money, and fear to get what they wanted. Men who didn’t care who they hurt in the process.
But Lucian wasn’t like that at all.
He didn’t have to flex his muscles or speak with bravado. His power came from within—a quiet calm, his actions speaking much louder than words.
He made the room feel safer.
The zipper of the dress slid down my back and then pooled at my feet. I stepped out of it and reached for the black T-shirt. It swallowed me when I pulled it over my head, the cotton soft and comfortable.
All night, Lucian had been the perfect gentleman.
He’d opened the car door, pulled out my chair, and ordered the perfect meal.
Tonight, I’d been the center of his attention. Not as a job. Not as a responsibility.
Just…me.
I could get addicted to that.
And God help me—I wanted to.
While washing the makeup off my face and brushing my teeth, it hit me that this was my first real date.
So, I refused to think about the monastery. About my father. About tomorrow.
Tonight belonged to us. Even if this was temporary, I could live with that. The way he looked at me—like I was something worth keeping despite the mess I came with—was more than I’d ever had. I wanted to be the reason he smiled the way he made me smile.
I tugged at the French braid and worked it loose, fingers separating the strands until my curls spilled free. They bounced wildly around my shoulders, so I carefully brushed them out into softer waves.
I still couldn’t get over Lucian braiding my hair.
He was a man who carried two guns like extensions of his body and had the strength to break bones with those hands of his. The sudden image of him with a little girl standing in front of him while he braided her hair popped into my mind. The image made my heart flutter.
With one last glance in the mirror, I set all my swirling thoughts to the side; I straightened my spine and left the bathroom.
He sat at the table in the living area, still dressed, forearms resting on his thighs, using his phone.
I didn’t say anything, just crawled into bed and slid under the covers, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
After a minute, he rose and disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran briefly. When he returned, he was still in his shirt and trousers.
He kicked off his shoes. Peeled off his socks.
Then he lay down on top of the covers on the other side of the bed.
Not touching me.
Not even close.
The message was clear: he wasn’t going to cross that line.
He’d kept his hand on my back tonight to protect me, not to claim me.
Disappointment hit me hard, but my mother’s Irish blood flared to life.
I turned onto my side, facing him.
God, I hoped he didn’t think I was fragile.
Or broken.
Or someone he had to handle like glass.
Before Aria had interrupted us, he would have taken all of me. I saw it in his eyes. And just now, when he’d wrapped me in his arms, he’d gotten another hard-on. I’d lost track of how many times he’d reacted to me that way.
He definitely wanted me.
So why was he holding back?
And why did that make me want him even more?
He reached over and clicked the bedside lamp off, leaving only the warm spill of city light coming in from the windows.
“Are you going to sleep in your clothes?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s practical.”
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “You can take your shirt off. I won’t touch you.”
A beat of silence followed.
“I can’t make that same promise,” he said.
Heat slid down my spine.
He hadn’t moved, but I could feel his restraint from across the mattress.
I turned my head to study him. The glow from outside carved shadows along his jaw and cheekbones. With his arms crossed like that, he looked all broody and controlled.
God, he was handsome.
I wanted him to look at me the way he had in his home–not protective, but hungry. In his kitchen, he’d dropped me on the counter and pinned me in a flash. He lost just enough of that maddening control to shove my legs apart and go down on me like he’d been starving for me.
“Lucian,” I said softly.
No answer.
I shifted closer and slung my leg over the covers, my knee brushing his thigh.
Still nothing.
I reached across the space between us and caught his hand before he could pull it away.
“Stay on your side,” he warned.
“I am.”
I placed my hand against his, palm to palm, comparing the size difference. His fingers were thick, calloused. Mine looked tiny against them.
“Let me see,” I murmured.
“You’re drunk.”
“Just a little tipsy.”
I traced my fingertip down the center of his palm, my eyes adjusting to the low light just enough to make out the lines. “Long lifeline,” I said lightly. “That’s good.”
Silence.
I followed another line. “There’s a break here, early on.” I glanced up at him. “The relationship line. Like you had said.”
His jaw flexed once.
“But it runs solid after that,” I continued.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“What else does it say about me?” he asked dryly.
I smiled in the dark. “That you’re stubborn. And that you don’t let go once you decide something’s yours.”
His fingers twitched slightly under mine.
I let my thumb drift across the inside of his wrist, feeling the thrum of his pulse.
“Still not touching you,” I said quietly.
The air between us became charged.
A second later, his fingers flexed under mine.
He stilled.
Then he yanked his hand from mine.
“Jesus, Scar,” he muttered, adjusting on the mattress. “I can’t be in the same room with you without getting a fucking hard-on.”
A laugh slipped out of me.
He shifted the pillows under his head and rolled onto his side, turning his back to me. “Get some sleep.”
The rejection stung, but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
“I can’t,” I said quietly. “My brain won’t shut off.”
He didn’t respond.
“Will you just…hold me?” I swallowed. “Like I’m normal. Not fragile…not broken.”
More silence.
I moved a few inches away from him and let out a slow breath. “I get it,” I said, staring into the dark. “You aren’t interested anymore. Not after everything I told you.”
He didn’t move.
“What man would want to be with a whore?” The word hurt to say, but it was the truth. “Even if it wasn’t something I chose…I’m sure you think it’s disgusting all the same.”
He snapped.