Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
DARAGH
T he morning light streamed through the tall windows of the estate, warm and soft, cutting through the cool dampness of the Irish air. Daragh sat in the oversized chair in his study, his fingers drumming against the mahogany armrest as he sipped his coffee. Across from him, Murphy stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression as neutral as ever.
“The seamstress has arrived,” Murphy said, his voice devoid of anything but quiet efficiency. “She’s waiting in the east sitting room.”
Daragh nodded, setting his mug down with deliberate care. “And Siobhan?”
Murphy’s lips twitched, the closest thing to amusement Daragh had ever seen from the man. “Pacing her room, cursing in multiple languages, from what I could hear.”
A slow grin curved Daragh’s mouth. His kitten was fighting, even when she knew she’d already lost.
He pushed to his feet and made his way upstairs, taking his time. He wanted her stewing. Wanted her simmering in frustration so that when he walked into her room, she would already be halfway to furious.
Because when she was furious, she was spectacular.
When he reached her door, he didn’t bother knocking. He pushed it open and stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the room.
Siobhan stood by the window, her arms crossed over her chest, her hair still damp from her shower. She wore a loose, off-the-shoulder sweater and leggings, but despite the casual attire, she looked every bit the wild, untamed thing he had no intention of letting go.
Her emerald-green eyes flicked to him, sharp and narrowed. “What now?”
Daragh leaned against the doorframe, taking his time raking his gaze over her. “Your dress is here.”
She scoffed, turning back toward the window. “Great. Just what every woman dreams of—a bridal gown she didn’t pick for a forced wedding in a house she can’t leave.”
Daragh pushed off the door and crossed the room in two easy strides, crowding her against the window. “Careful, kitten. You’re acting like you think you can change your mind. You can’t. I gave you a choice, you made it, and we sealed the deal in a most intimately satisfying manner.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move. “And what if I refuse to wear it?”
Daragh’s fingers curled beneath her chin, tilting her head until their eyes met. “Then you walk down that aisle with a very red ass under your gown. Up to you.”
Siobhan’s pupils dilated, her breath coming faster. But instead of backing down, she lifted her chin defiantly.
Daragh’s lips brushed her ear as he murmured, “Go on, fight me on this. Give me a reason to put you over my knee before we even get to the altar.”
Siobhan inhaled sharply, her throat working as she swallowed. She hated the way those words made her feel. Then, with a sharp jerk of her chin, she yanked her face away from his grasp. “Fine.”
He let her go, satisfied. “Good girl.”
She shot him a glare that would have sent lesser men running. Daragh only chuckled, enjoying every second of her fury.
An hour later, Daragh stood in the east sitting room, watching as the seamstress laid out the selection of gowns. He barely spared the other options a glance before pointing to the one he wanted.
“That one,” he said, his voice leaving no room for discussion.
The woman nodded, her hands brushing reverently over the luxurious fabric. “A fine choice, Mr. O’Neill.”
It was more than fine. It was perfect. A modern princess gown, strapless, with a sculpted bodice and a lace-up back that would mold to Siobhan’s curves like a second skin. The full, sweeping ballgown skirt was made of textured organza, regal and dramatic, the kind of gown designed to make a woman feel both powerful and utterly feminine.
It would suit her. Whether or not she wanted it to.
When finally forced to try it on, Daragh watched Siobhan stand before the mirror, staring at her reflection as if she didn’t recognize the woman looking back.
Mrs. Carson stood beside her, fussing with the laces. “Ah, there we are. You’ll be breathtaking, dear.”
Siobhan said nothing, her gaze locked on her reflection.
Daragh stepped behind her, his hands settling on her bare shoulders. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice just for her.
Siobhan swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the folds of her skirt.
Daragh smoothed a hand down her back, tracing the intricate laces. “And when you walk down that aisle, every single person in that room will know you’re mine.”
Her breath caught, and for the first time, she didn’t fight him at least not with words; not with fists; just silence.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the estate chapel, casting warm hues across the polished wood floors. The air smelled of aged parchment, burning candles, and fresh-cut roses, their delicate fragrance nearly drowned out by the weight of what was happening.
Murphy stood at Daragh’s side, his usual stoic expression unreadable. Mrs. Carson sat in the front pew, her hands folded in quiet approval.
Siobhan stood across from Daragh, her posture stiff, her chin lifted in a silent act of rebellion.
The priest—an old, grizzled man who had served the O’Neills for decades—cleared his throat, glancing between them. “We are gathered here today…”
Daragh barely heard the words. He was too busy watching Siobhan, drinking in the sight of her. The way the dress clung to her, the way her lips parted as she inhaled slowly, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides.
When the priest finally asked for her vows, she hesitated.
Daragh’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me remind you who’s in charge here, kitten.”
She twisted her head, her green eyes blazing. For a moment, he thought she would defy him. Then, slowly, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and said the words that would seal her fate.
“I do.”
Daragh’s chest tightened, something dark and possessive curling inside him. He took her hand, slid the ring onto her finger, and let his lips curl into something dark, something full of wicked promise.
“You’re mine now.”
Siobhan’s eyes flashed with a thousand unspoken words, but she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Because she knew. And so did he.
The paperwork was signed, the witnesses thanked, and the priest had left when Daragh led Siobhan back to the house for their first meal as husband and wife. Mrs. Carson had gone all out to ensure it was a feast.
The dining room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting golden hues across the dark wood of the long table. The scent of roasted lamb and buttered vegetables filled the air, mingling with the ever-present scent of the sea that drifted in through the open terrace doors. The meal was rich, decadent even, a celebration of their wedding, though Siobhan looked more like a prisoner being forced to partake in her last meal than a bride dining with her husband.
Daragh watched her as he sipped his whiskey, his gaze steady and assessing. She sat across from him, her posture stiff, her fingers clenched around the silverware as if she had to remind herself not to stab him with it.
“Eat, kitten,” he said smoothly. “It won’t kill you.”
She looked up at him; her gaze sharp and challenging. “That’s debatable.”
Daragh let out a low chuckle. “If I wanted to kill you, Siobhan, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of marrying you.”
She huffed but lifted a bite of lamb to her mouth, anyway. He noted the way her jaw tightened as she chewed, as though she was forcing herself to comply. She could fight all she wanted, but she wouldn’t waste away out of spite.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sound the occasional scrape of silverware against porcelain. But Daragh wasn’t a man who enjoyed silence when there was information to be gained.
“Tell me about your father,” he said, keeping his voice casual.
Siobhan froze, the fork halfway to her lips before she carefully set it back down on the plate. Her fingers tensed on the table’s edge.
“Why?” she asked, her tone flat, guarded.
Daragh leaned back in his chair, swirling his whiskey. “Because you don’t talk about him, and yet I know his death must have changed everything for you.” He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of his glass. “I want to know what kind of man he was.”
Siobhan let out a quiet, humorless laugh, her fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass. “He was a man who played a game he couldn’t win.”
Daragh remained silent, waiting.
She sighed, shaking her head. “My father, Robert Harrington, was a brilliant man in many ways. But he was arrogant, reckless. He built an empire on ambition and charm, but when it all came crashing down…” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “He didn’t survive it.”
Daragh had already known about the scandal. The whispers of embezzlement, fraud. The suicide that followed. But hearing her say it, seeing the flicker of something close to pain in her gaze, made it real in a way the reports never had.
“When he died,” Siobhan continued, voice steadier now, “everything went with him. The money. The properties. The influence. His death left me with nothing but a name, worthless at best and a liability at worst.”
She reached for her wine, taking a sip before setting it down with a little more force than necessary. “That’s when Sebastian found me.”
Daragh’s fingers tightened around his glass.
“He was charming at first,” she murmured. “Kind. He told me I was safe with him, that he would take care of me.” A bitter smile curled her lips. “It didn’t take long for me to realize that ‘taking care of me’ meant owning me.”
Daragh’s blood ran cold.
Siobhan met his gaze, unflinching. “He controlled everything. What I wore, where I went, who I spoke to. At first, I thought it was protectiveness. I was young. Stupid.” Her voice darkened. “But then I saw what he was doing. The kind of business he was involved in.”
Daragh didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t push. He let her tell it in her own time.
She took another sip of wine, exhaling slowly. “I thought I could get out. That if I went to MI5, if I helped them, they would protect me. That I could disappear.”
Daragh let out a quiet breath. “And they betrayed you as well.”
Siobhan gave a short, sharp nod. “They wanted to use me. Keep me on a leash. Just like Sebastian.”
He set his glass down with a decisive clink, leaning forward. “That’s why he wants you back,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “It’s not just about control. You know things. Things that could ruin him.” Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t deny it. Daragh tilted his head, watching her closely. “And MI5? They want you just as bad.”
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “They think I still have value... that I can be coerced.”
Daragh ran a hand over his jaw, processing everything she had just told him.
Sebastian Wolfe wanted her either chained to him or dead. MI5 wanted her as a tool, a pawn in their endless games. Neither of them would get her. Because she belonged to him now. He let the thought settle in his chest, solid and immovable.
“You don’t have to worry about them anymore,” he said, his voice final.
Siobhan scoffed. “Because you’ve married me? Because you put a ring on my finger?” She glared at him, her frustration curling around every syllable. “That doesn’t mean I’m safe, Daragh.”
His eyes darkened. “It does.”
Siobhan let out a sharp laugh, pushing back her chair. “And if I don’t want any of this?”
Daragh rose smoothly, rounding the table, stalking toward her until she was forced to tilt her head up to keep his gaze. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and gleaming. The delicate iron and diamond collar.
She inhaled sharply, her body going still.
Daragh lifted the collar, letting it dangle from his fingers, letting her see exactly what she was up against. “Then I’ll have to put this on you.” His voice was velvet over steel, utterly merciless. “And you’ll learn what it means to truly belong to me.”
Siobhan’s breath came faster, her pupils dilating. But she didn’t back away. Didn’t flinch.
A slow, dangerous smile curved Daragh’s lips. “You can fight me all you want, kitten,” he murmured, trailing the collar down the line of her arm. “But you’ll never be free of me.”
Something flickered in her eyes, something dark and primal. She was angry. Furious. But she wasn’t afraid. And that only made him want her more.
Daragh reached up, cupping the back of her neck, letting his fingers tangle in her hair. He dragged her forward, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered, “You’re mine, Siobhan. And after tonight you will not only be married, but claimed.”
Her breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to see the conflict raging in her eyes. The fury. The defiance. And something deeper. Something far more dangerous—desire.
Daragh let her go, stepping back, giving her space. But not too much.
“Eat. You’ll need your strength,” he said, his voice still thick with dominance. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
Siobhan swallowed, her throat working as she slowly sank back into her chair. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. She could fight. She could resist. But in the end, she was his and she would bend to his will.
The moment the door to their bedroom closed behind them, the air between them thickened. Siobhan stood at the center of the room, her spine rigid, her eyes ablaze with defiance and something she wasn’t ready to name. Her gown, still pristine from their wedding, whispered against the polished floor as she inhaled slowly, as if trying to steady herself.
Daragh had no such hesitation.
He crossed the space between them in two measured steps, reaching for the delicate row of pearl buttons at the back of her gown. She flinched slightly, but she didn’t move away. That was her first mistake.
The second was thinking she had any control left.
His fingers brushed over the small of her back, tracing the lace-up detail before he began untying it with infuriating patience. “You know, I half expected you to put up more of a fight at the altar,” he murmured, his voice rich with amusement.
Siobhan let out a short, breathy laugh, but there was an edge to it. “I thought about it.”
Daragh tugged at the laces, loosening the bodice inch by inch. “And yet, here we are.”
Her breath hitched when the fabric loosened enough for it to slide down and puddle in a silken heap at her feet, exposing the smooth line of her spine. The dress had a built in corset and Siobhan had wisely chosen not to wear panties. God she was gorgeous… and all his.
Daragh pressed his lips against the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent—wild, untamed, and uniquely hers.
She was completely naked, and as his gaze roamed over her, heat pooled in his gut. His cock became engorged, bordering on painful.
“You looked exquisite this afternoon, kitten,” he murmured, running a finger along the lace trim of her corset. “But I think I prefer you like this. Bare. Unprotected.”
Siobhan balled into fists at her sides. “I am not unprotected. I’ve been on birth control for years.”
Daragh chuckled, low and dark. He let his hands skim down the delicate swell of her hips, lingering on the softest part of her. “Noted, but the real question is who’s going to save you from me?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, but he didn’t miss the way her thighs pressed together, her nipples stiffening. Her body betraying her even as her mind fought against what they both knew was inevitable.
Daragh turned her to face him, gripping her chin and tilting her head back so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Say it, kitten,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a growl.
Her pupils dilated, her lips parting slightly. “Say what?”
His thumb dragged over her lower lip. “That you belong to me.”
Siobhan’s breath shuddered between them, her chest rising and falling too fast. But she didn’t speak.
Daragh exhaled sharply, his patience slipping. He slid his arm around her waist and hauled her against him, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was pure possession. Siobhan gasped, her hands bracing against his chest as he devoured her, drinking in the taste of her.
She fought him at first—tried to cling to whatever control she had left—but it wasn’t long before her body melted into his, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
Daragh growled against her lips, nipping at her bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Give in.”
Siobhan let out a ragged breath, her nails digging into his shoulders as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her toward the bed.