CHAPTER TEN
LUNA
THE AIR FEELS heavier tonight, like the world knows something is about to crack open. I pace the length of the living room, biting my thumbnail and trying—and failing—to make sense of the storm inside me. Sara is back at work and each time she passes the living room that I have stayed in, I quickly turn away so I don’t meet her questioning gaze. She doesn’t seem to dare enter. Right now, I don’t even know what to say to anyone. I’ve texted Becca to tell her I’m still staying over at Cian’s but she sent back emojis of love-hearts making me smile for a brief moment.
Cian’s face flashes in my mind—the way he had held my hand in front of his father, the flash of intensity in his eyes when he was trying to protect me. He’s trying so hard to protect me, but I know I’ve brought this all upon myself, and hearing his father say they were going to war makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I drag a hand through my hair and sink onto the couch. “Get it together, Luna,” I mutter. But even as the words leave my mouth, my heart pulls in two directions. One part wants to surrender, to admit that I’m falling for Cian—falling hard. The other screams at me to remember who I am. I’m his cleaner who wants to stay in this lavish life.
My ex’s father, Richard Fitzsimons, is a name that makes me curl in on myself. I’ve met him a few times and each time Iwanted to run away from him. I had the feeling he wasn’t a good man, but to find out he’s the leader of some powerful gang is frightening, and the fact he wants me, like he knows I’m the reason his son is dead, makes him all the more terrifying. But the thought that he is planning to attack Cian has me knowing I need to do something.
I need to ring him. My phone sits on the coffee table, mocking me with its silence. Call him. Try to reason with him. I already know I can’t, I don’t have the man’s number. I could go back to the apartment and find Mark’s second phone that he keeps along the side of his recliner in the living room.
Cian was warned by his father not to leave but only an hour after his father left, he promised he would be back shortly and warned me to stay here.
But, I can’t sit around and do nothing.
The staff kitchen smells faintly of coffee and bleach, a clash of the comforting and the clinical. Sara is leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other cradles a steaming mug. I hesitate in the doorway, my hand tightening around the edge of the frame. She hasn’t noticed me yet. Good. I need a moment to piece together the lie—something plausible, easy to say, easier to believe.
“Sara?” I step inside, schooling my face into something neutral. Friendly, even.
She looks up, her brow lifting as if she’s surprised to see me, fair enough I have been avoiding her. “What’s up?”
“Can I borrow your car?” The words tumble out too quickly, too rehearsed. I force a small laugh to soften the urgency in my voice. “Just for a quick run. I’ll have it back before your shift ends.”
Sara straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why? You staying around here or something?”
“Oh, yeah.” I wave a hand, dismissing the question before it can take root. “Had a serious leak at my place. Cian…” I pause, my stomach twisting as I say his name. “Cian was kind enough to let me crash for a bit while it gets sorted.”
The lie slips off my tongue with alarming ease, the practiced skill of someone who’s had to lie before—too many times. Sara doesn’t respond immediately, just studies me with a look that says she’s trying to decide whether I’m full of it. I feel the weight of her scrutiny, the pause stretching too long.
Finally, she sighs and pulls her keys from her pocket, tossing them onto the counter between us. “My shift ends in two hours,” she says, her voice carrying a warning.
“I’ll be back by then,” I promise, snatching the keys before she can change her mind. “Thanks, Sara. I owe you.”
She doesn’t reply, just takes a sip of her coffee, her eyes lingering on me as I leave. My heart doesn’t slow until I’m in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it might steady me.
The drive to the apartment feels longer than it is. Every glance in the rearview mirror sends a spike of paranoia through me. I’m not being followed—I’ve checked enough times to be sure—but the fear doesn’t care about logic. It sits heavy in my chest, a constant companion.
When I finally pull up outside the building, I’m hit with a fresh wave of anxiety. The curtains in the living room are still drawn, the same way I left them. From the outside, it looks untouched. Normal. But I know better. I sit there for a minute, my fingers drumming on the wheel as I scan the street. No unusual cars. No one is loitering. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching. Waiting.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself before stepping out of the car and locking it behind me. I jog up the steps, my keys already in hand. The door creaks as I push it open, and the smell hits me first—stale air mixed with something faintly metallic. My stomach flips.
The living room is a disaster. Cushions ripped apart, drawers yanked from the coffee table and overturned, their contents strewn across the floor. The recliner, his recliner, is tipped onto its side. My breath catches in my throat. Who the hell did this? The Gardai? Or someone else?
“Shit,” I whisper, stepping carefully over the mess. My shoes crunch on broken glass, and I wince, my eyes darting to the source. A photo frame—one of Mark and me from years ago, before everything went to hell. It’s been smashed, the photo crumpled and torn. I force myself to look away.
The recliner is empty. No phone. I curse under my breath, my hands balling into fists. Of course, it’s not there. Why would anything go right for once?
I move to the bedroom, stepping over more wreckage. Every drawer has been pulled out and dumped, the mattress flipped onto its side. Whoever did this wasn’t just looking—they were sending a message. My pulse quickens as I start rifling through what’s left. Socks, shirts, nothing useful. Where is it?
Panic claws at my throat as the minutes slip away. I can’t be here too long. Sara’s shift ends in less than two hours, and the last thing I need is for her to start asking questions. My fingers shake as I open another drawer, rummaging through the chaos.
That’s when I hear it.
A noise. Faint, but distinct. A floorboard creaking just outside the bedroom door.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The air feels suddenly heavier like the walls are closing in. Someone’s here.
I grip the edge of the dresser, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. My eyes dart to the door, half expecting it to swing open any second. I’m trapped. There’s no way out except through the door, and whoever’s on the other side…they’re not here to help.
My mind races, trying to come up with a plan, but all I can do is stand there, frozen, and pray they don’t find me first.
The door creaks open, slow and deliberate. I can’t breathe, my chest tightens as if the air’s been sucked from the room. But when the figure steps into view, it lunges—and I’m hit with a jolt of relief and dread all at once.
Cian.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is a low growl, his sharp eyes taking in the wreckage around us.
“I didn’t do that. It was like this.” My voice is shaky, defensive.
Cian’s gaze flickers back to me, and he nods. “I know.”
I blink, caught off guard. “How do you know?”
He steps further into the room, his towering frame filling the small space. Seven feet of muscle and menace, and right now, all of it’s directed at me. “Because I did this.”
His words hit like a slap, and before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward him. “Did you find a phone?” My voice cracks, desperate. I’m praying he has it. I need it.
Cian’s expression doesn’t shift as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the phone. Relief floods me, so overwhelming I almost cry.
“I need it,” I say, reaching for it.
He doesn’t move, keeping it just out of reach. “Why?”
The weight of his stare is crushing. He’s not going to hand it over without an explanation, and for a split second, I consider lying again. But there’s no point. Not with him.
“I want to ring Richard,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “See if I can sort all this out.”
The laugh that escapes Cian’s lips is cold, humorless. It sends a shiver down my spine. “Sort it out?” he repeats, his tone mocking. “You think it’s that simple?”
“I have to try.” My cheeks blaze at his laugh.
“No, you don’t. Come on, let's get you home.” Cian pockets the phone like that’s the end of the conversation.
I shake my head. “I need to do this, Cian,” I demand.
“Why? I can sort this out, and I told you not to leave the house.”
“Because I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you,” I say instead. “Even if you hate me for leaving the house, I needed to try.”
His expression softens, just a fraction. “I don’t hate you, Luna.”
“You should,” I whisper, the weight of my past crashing over me. “I’m dragging you into something you didn’t ask for.”
He steps closer, his voice steady. “You didn’t drag me into anything. I’m the one who chose to walk across the road and end his life.”
My breath catches. His words hang between us, heavy with unspoken truths. And for the first time, I let myself wonder if maybe, this isn’t all my fault.
I glance at Cian, his eyes sharp and unreadable as he watches me. “I could at least try to call Richard,” I say, my voice hesitant. “What if he listens to me?”
Cian takes one step closer, closing the already minimal space between us. His presence feels heavier now, more commanding. “Do you really believe that?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat. Do I believe it? No, not really. But what other options do I have? I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t, but…I haven’t given up yet.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. “I promise this will all be over soon,” he says, his tone gentler than I expected. “But right now, we need to get back to the house.”
I want to argue—my mind runs over half a dozen rebuttals, excuses, or ways to stall—but I know better. Cian isn’t the type to bend to reasoning, especially when he thinks he’s right. “Fine,” I say, exhaling through my nose. “I’ll follow behind you. I’ve got Sara’s car.”
Cian shakes his head firmly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “No. You’re coming with me. One of my men will bring the car back.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from arguing. It’s not worth it. The sooner we’re out of here, the better. I’m about to step past him when his hand catches my arm, his grip firm but not harsh. The unexpected touch stops me in my tracks.
I look up, and for a moment, I’m caught in the depths of his gaze. There’s something there, something intense, but not threatening. His fingers loosen slightly, his thumb brushing my arm. “The day in the bathroom,” he says softly, his voice dropping low. “When you walked in on me... I saw something in you. Something so soft and vulnerable.”
I freeze, my pulse jumping at his words. He lifts his hand, his rough fingers grazing my cheek, and the gentleness in the gesture catches me off guard. “I knew then that I wanted you, Luna,” he murmurs, his tone raw and unapologetic. “And I’ll do anything to protect you.”
His words cut through me, breaking past the walls I’ve spent years building. My throat tightens, and I force myself to breathe. “No one’s ever tried to protect me before,” I admit, my voice barely audible. “Not even my parents.”
He nods like he already knows—like he’s carried pieces of my story without me having to tell him. There’s no pity in his expression, just understanding, and something else I can’t quite place. When he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, I feel something crack inside me, something I didn’t even realize was still whole.
“Then let me protect you,” he whispers, his voice a plea, but there’s an edge of command in it too. A promise.
I rise up on the tips of my toes, closing the small gap between us, but even then, Cian has to bend down slightly to meet me. My lips brush his, tentative at first, until I feel the warmth of him grounding me.
“Okay,” I whisper against his mouth. My hands grip the fabric of his shirt, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. “Please protect me.”