18. Cassie
CASSIE
T he smell of old books and dust filled my nostrils as I hunched over the leather-bound volumes in Roman’s private library.
I’d been here for two hours, surrounded by histories most people would never see—chronicles of Irish families who’d built empires on blood and brotherhood, records of alliances forged in back rooms and broken in graveyards.
I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. Roman had made it clear that certain parts of his world were off-limits, that his protection came with the price of ignorance. But I was tired of being treated like a fragile ornament, tired of sitting in towers while wars raged around me.
My finger traced the family trees sprawled across the pages, trying to understand the intricate web of relationships that governed Roman’s world.
The Flanagans, the O’Sullivans, the Murphys—names I’d heard whispered in hallways, families whose histories were written in blood and loyalty spanning generations.
But it was more than just curiosity driving me.
I’d seen the exhaustion in Roman’s eyes, the way he carried the weight of leadership alone.
The fragments of conversations I’d overheard—mentions of betrayal, of threats closing in—told me he was fighting battles on multiple fronts.
And I was tired of being just another burden he had to protect.
I wanted to help. I needed to understand his world well enough to be useful instead of just vulnerable.
The book I’d pulled from a restricted section detailed territorial disputes from the 1990s, complete with maps marking family boundaries and neutral zones. I studied the patterns, the way conflicts escalated and resolved, trying to understand the unwritten rules that governed this shadow world.
A loose photograph fell from between the pages—a surveillance shot of men I didn’t recognize standing outside what looked like a warehouse. The timestamp showed it was recent, and someone had written notes in the margins about shipment schedules and security rotations.
My pulse quickened. This wasn’t just historical research—this was current intelligence. Active operations Roman was monitoring.
I should’ve put it back immediately. Should’ve closed the book and returned to the safety of ignorance, Roman preferred for me. Instead, I studied the photo more carefully, memorizing faces and details.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made me slam the book shut, my pulse spiking with guilty adrenaline. I shoved it back onto the shelf and grabbed a different volume—something innocuous about Irish literature—settling into the leather armchair just as Roman appeared in the doorway.
"There you are," he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of possession that made my stomach flutter. "I’ve been looking for you."
"Just reading," I said, holding up the book—thankfully, it was actually about Irish poetry. "Trying to understand more about your heritage."
His blue eyes studied me with uncomfortable intensity, and for a moment, I was certain he could see right through my lie. Roman had survived in a world where deception meant death by learning to read every micro-expression, every tell.
"You look flushed," he said, moving closer. "Everything alright?"
Relief flooded through me when I realized he’d misread my racing pulse. "Fine. Just got lost in the reading. Some of these stories are... intense."
Roman’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Irish history tends to be. Lots of blood, betrayal, and revenge. Not exactly light reading."
"No," I agreed, standing to replace the poetry book on its proper shelf. "But it helps me understand where you come from. The traditions, the codes of honor."
Something flickered across his features—approval, maybe, at my interest in his heritage. "Most people prefer not to dig too deep into family history. Especially Irish family history."
"I’m not most people," I said, and meant it. "If I’m going to be your wife, I want to understand what that means. Really understand it."
Roman stepped closer, his hand finding my face with that possessive gentleness that made my knees weak. "You’re trying to learn about my world."
It wasn’t a question, and the knowing look in his eyes made my stomach flip. Had he seen me with the other book? Did he know I’d been looking at things I shouldn’t?
"I want to be more than just someone you have to protect," I said carefully. "I want to be someone who understands what you’re facing."
His thumb traced my cheekbone, and I had to fight not to lean into the touch. "Understanding and being part of it are two different things, Cassie. Some knowledge comes with a price."
"What if I’m willing to pay it?"
The question hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us was ready to examine. Roman studied my face like he was trying to read my soul, looking for hidden motives or dangerous naivety.
"We’ll see," he said finally. "But for now, stick to poetry. Some doors are better left unopened."
He pressed a kiss to my forehead and left me alone with my racing heart and the growing certainty that I was already through doors I couldn’t close again.
The rest of the evening passed in careful normalcy.
I ate the dinner Roman had sent up, took a long bath, and tried to quiet my racing mind with mindless television.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the photograph, about the notes written in familiar handwriting, about the weight of secrets I was carrying.
By the time Roman came to bed, I’d decided.
I was done being protected. Done waiting for permission to step into a world that had already claimed me. If Roman’s enemies were circling like vultures, if betrayal was coming from within his own organization, then he needed allies who could see threats he couldn’t.
He needed me to be more than just something worth protecting.
Roman emerged from the bathroom wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, his hair damp from the shower.
The sight of him never failed to steal my breath—all lean muscle and controlled power, tattoos that told stories I was only beginning to understand.
But tonight I could see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the weight of empire crushing down on him.
He moved to his side of the bed with that predatory grace that made my pulse spike, but there was something different about him tonight. Something brittle beneath the surface.
I waited until he settled against the pillows before making my move.
Without a word, I slipped out of bed and padded around to his side. He looked up as I approached, those blue eyes dark with questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Instead of speaking, I climbed onto the bed behind him, pressing my body against his back as my arms came around his chest.
He stiffened at the unexpected contact, every muscle going taut under my touch. In Roman’s world, unexpected touches could mean death. Showing vulnerability was suicide.
But then he recognized my scent, my warmth, and his body relaxed into mine.
I didn’t speak. Couldn’t find words for what I was trying to give him—comfort, strength, the promise that he wasn’t carrying everything alone. Instead, I pressed my lips to the space between his shoulder blades, tasting salt and the lingering traces of his soap.
Roman’s hands covered mine where they rested against his chest, his fingers interlacing with mine over his heartbeat. It was steady, strong, the rhythm that had become my anchor in a world of constant chaos.
The moonlight streaming through the windows painted everything silver, casting shadows that danced across the walls as we breathed together.
This felt different from our desperate couplings, different from the claiming and the need.
This was intimacy in its purest form—two people finding solace in each other’s presence when the world outside threatened to tear everything apart.
"I’ve got you," I whispered against his skin, and felt him shudder.
His head fell back against my shoulder, and I realized this might be the first time Roman Creed had ever let someone hold him without expectation, without agenda. The vulnerability of it made my chest ache with emotions I wasn’t brave enough to name.
We stayed like that for long minutes, my arms wrapped around him from behind, his back pressed against my chest. I could feel the tension leaving his body, replaced by something softer but no less intense.
Trust, maybe. Or the recognition that whatever was building between us had moved beyond simple desire into something more dangerous.
Something worth fighting for.
Roman’s breathing deepened, and I thought he might be drifting off to sleep when a sharp cramp twisted low in my stomach, cutting through the peaceful moment like a knife.
The pain was sudden, vicious, like someone had driven a blade between my ribs. I gasped, my arms tightening involuntarily around Roman’s chest as another wave hit, this one stronger than the first.
"Cassie?" His voice snapped to immediate alertness, the exhaustion vanishing as danger-honed instincts kicked in. "What’s wrong?"
I tried to answer, but another cramp seized me, doubling me over with agony that radiated outward from my core. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
The room spun around me as I collapsed forward, Roman’s strong arms catching me before I could hit the floor. But even through the haze of pain, one thought echoed with crystal clarity:
I wasn’t ready to lose this. Whatever was happening to my body, whatever price I might pay for the secrets I’d been keeping, I wasn’t ready to lose him.
And there was nothing I could do to stop it.