CHAPTER ELEVENv
LUNA
THE CAR RIDE back is silent, except for the hum of the engine and the soft rain tapping against the windshield. I watch Cian out of the corner of my eye, the sharp line of his jaw tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it owes him something. His silence feels heavy, loaded with words he won't say yet.
I don't push. I don't dare.
Instead, I stare at the blur of trees and street lights whipping past, their shapes stretching like ghosts. A pit settles in my stomach, the kind that tells me something is coming—something I won't like.
We pull up to the house, and the tension only gets worse. There's another car already here, parked at an odd angle like someone couldn't be bothered to straighten it out. Cian swears under his breath and kills the engine.
"Stay close to me," he says, his voice low and edged with something dark.
I nod, though my heart hammers as I step out into the night. The rain is heavier now, dampening my hair and soaking into my shoes, but I barely notice. The front door swings open before we even get there, and Jack—Cian's cousin—fills the doorway.
"What the fuck took you so long?" Jack growls, his sharp eyes narrowing on us. He's tall and broad, but his presence feels larger than life like he could crush someone with his stare alone. His clothes are rumpled, his face set in a scowl that makes my stomach twist. Something’s wrong.
"What happened?" Cian bites out, as Jack backs into the house letting us get out of the rain. Cian’s shoulders are squared, his whole body coiled like he's ready for a fight.
Jack runs a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "Richard tried to clip Niall."
The words slam into me like a physical blow. Cian stiffens. I can feel the anger radiating off him, sharp and dangerous.
"Is he—?"
"He's fine," Jack says quickly, holding up a hand. "It was close, but he's fine. For now."
Cian exhales, a sound that's part relief, part rage. I take an instinctive step closer to him, the warmth of his arm a small comfort in this sudden, chaotic storm.
Jack doesn’t miss it. He shifts his attention to me, and the look he gives me makes my throat tighten. Like I’m the root of the problem, and he knows it. His eyes are the most unusual blue that seems to sear right through my flesh.
"We don’t need this shit right now," Jack continues, his tone sharp. "The shipments are coming in, and we’re up to our necks already. A turf war? That’s the last fucking thing we need."
"Then I’ll handle it," Cian growls, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
Jack scoffs, the sound full of disbelief. "Handle it? You think this is just your fight? You know better than that, Cian. We’re all in this together. You don’t get to play hero."
He looks at me again, and this time there’s no mistaking the accusation in his eyes. "Richard wants her. You know that, don’t you? And this ends if—"
"That’s not happening." Cian cuts him off, stepping in front of me like a shield. His voice is low and lethal, a tone I’ve never heard before.
I glance at the back of his head, then at Jack, whose mouth presses into a thin line.
"You’re thinking with your heart instead of your head," Jack mutters, his frustration simmering just below the surface. He turns slightly, speaking to both of us now. "We can’t keep sitting around waiting to be picked off. We need a plan. A meeting. Tonight."
Cian doesn’t argue. "Fine. Call it."
Jack doesn’t wait for more. He storms outside, muttering under his breath. The front door slams behind him, leaving me and Cian alone in the hallway. I shiver, but not from the cold.
Cian turns to me, his expression softer now, though his eyes are still dark. Haunted.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly.
I want to say yes, but the words stick in my throat. How could I be okay? Niall could’ve died. Richard wants me . This is my fault. The reality of it crashes over me, and I stagger back a step, sucking in a shaky breath.
Cian reaches for me, his hands firm on my arms. "Hey. Look at me."
I do, though it’s hard. His gaze pierces straight through me, searching for something I’m not sure I can give. Reassurance? Hope?
"You’re safe here," he says. "I’m not letting him touch you."
I believe him—and that terrifies me more than anything. Because I know what it will cost him to keep that promise. Cian will fight for me. He will bleed for me. He could die for me.
And I can’t let that happen.
I love the man standing in front of me, with his stormy eyes, scarred knuckles and the unwavering way he protects me like I’m worth something. But love isn’t enough to save him.
I have to save him.
Without warning, Cian pulls me into a hug. I sink into his arms, inhaling his scent—a mix of rain, leather, and something uniquely him. I breathe it in like I can memorize it, as if that alone can keep me safe.
No one has ever defended me before. People take. They take , and they leave me empty. But not Cian. He’s here, and he’s real.
This is my chance to give back—to protect someone who sees me completely.
The words I love you lodge in my throat, tangled there. Would he laugh if I said them? It feels too fast, too soon…and yet it’s so clear.
I want Thursday visits to his nan. I want his lips pressed to mine. I want to learn what makes him the man he is. I want to watch him cook me breakfast or just sit beside him in his car, the silence filling all the cracks I didn’t know were there. It’s the small things that twist me up inside.
Cian’s lips press to mine, soft and searching. A groan slips out before I can stop it.
He deepens the kiss, his hands sliding to my waist and pulling me closer. I melt under his touch, my heart pounding like it might burst through my ribs. The world narrows to just this—his warmth, his lips, the way he tastes like rain, and something darkly sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that steals breath and reason, leaving me dizzy and wanting more.
But the moment shatters when we hear someone clearing their throat behind us.
"Cian," a deep voice says. I jerk back, cheeks flushed, as one of his security guys stands at the edge of the door. "Your father’s on the office phone."
Cian curses softly, brushing his thumb over my cheek before stepping away. "I’ll be back."
I nod, though it feels like something inside me just cracked open.
He disappears into his office, and I’m left standing there, soaked and cold, my lips still tingling.
I can’t stay.
The decision hits me like a slap. I know what I have to do.
I climb the stairs slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. When I reach the room—the one I’ve been sleeping in—I push the door open and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The space is ridiculous, far too luxurious for someone like me. A four-poster bed sits in the center, its dark wood polished to perfection and the fabric draped around it whispering of wealth and comfort.
I don’t linger long. I strip down quickly and step into the shower. The water is scalding hot, almost too hot, but I don’t turn it down. It’s grounding—a sharp reminder that I’m still here, that this moment is real. My fingers trail through my wet hair, and for a second, I let myself imagine this life is mine: clean, fresh clothes; a bed big enough to get lost in; walls that don’t threaten to close in on me.
But that thought barely lasts. My comfort is short-lived, slipping through my fingers like the water swirling down the drain. I’m not stupid. None of this belongs to me.
Once I’m dressed in a set of clothes that are—unsurprisingly—brand new, I pause. I take a minute to really look at the room. The furniture is all polished oak, heavy, and timeless. The curtains are a thick burgundy, and spill onto the floors in elegant folds. Even the air smells different here—clean, expensive, like linen and faint cologne.
I don’t belong here.
The realization sits like a weight on my chest. I force myself to breathe through it, to ignore the ache growing in my throat. I should feel grateful—and I do—but all it does is make me more aware of how fleeting this is.
But…I met Cian. And for the first time, I think I understand what it means for someone to protect me. I’ve never had that before. Not really. And now that I do, it’s almost too much. The room feels suffocating. The silence is too loud, pressing against my ears. I need to move.
I slip downstairs to the living room and grab the first book I see from the shelf. It’s heavy in my hands, the spine creaking as I open it to a random page. Not that it matters—I don’t intend to read it. I just need something to do, something to occupy my hands while my mind refuses to settle.
That’s where Cian finds me.
The sound of footsteps makes my head snap up, and there he is, standing in the doorway. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me like he’s taking in every detail. Then he crosses the room, his movements slow and deliberate.
He kneels in front of me, his strong hands finding mine, wrapping around them gently. His touch is warm, steady—reassuring in a way I’ve never experienced before. I hate how much I lean into it.
“I promise this will be over soon,” he says quietly. His voice is soft, as if he’s trying not to break me with the words. “When I get back, why don’t I cook you something nice?”
My throat tightens instantly. I try to swallow it down, but it’s no use. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand that I won’t be here when he gets back—that I can’t be here. I’m leaving, and there’s no stopping it.
I want to tell him; to warn him not to get too comfortable. But when I look at his face, at the way he’s trying so hard to make this okay for me, the words die on my tongue.
Instead, I force a smile, my lips trembling as I nod. “That sounds nice.”
Cian hesitates. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the muscles there ticking like he’s holding something back. His eyes search my face, and for a second, I think he knows—that he can see right through me. But whatever war he’s fighting with himself, he doesn’t let it show. Finally, he stands, his hands slipping from mine.
“I won’t be long,” he says, his voice a little rougher now.
He leaves without another word. I hear the front door open and shut, the soft sound of the engine starting, the tires rolling down the long gravel drive. I sit there, frozen, clutching the book tighter than I need to.
I don’t move. Not at first. I tell myself to wait—just a little longer—but the longer I sit, the heavier the silence grows. Finally, I stand, the book slipping from my fingers and thudding against the floor.
Inside the garage, I find a set of keys hanging by the door. My fingers hesitate on the cold metal, the weightsomehow heavier than it should be.
The garage is dark except for the faint glow of a single overhead bulb, flickering as though warning me to stop. Three cars sit in the cavernous space, gleaming under the dim light: a sensible sedan, a rugged SUV, and then…the sleek black BMW. Its polished surface reflects the pale light, looking both beautiful and dangerous.
I’m sorry, Cian.
The apology tears through my mind as I slide into the driver’s seat. I grip the wheel, my hands trembling, slick with sweat. The car hums to life with a low growl, the engine purring like it knows what’s coming. For a second, I sit there, my breath shallow and quick, watching the garage door rise inch by inch. The rain outside is relentless, slamming against the concrete drive like a warning—turn back. But I don’t. I can’t.
As I pull out into the rain-soaked night, the wheels skid briefly on the slick pavement. My heart jumps into my throat, but I press the gas, forcing the car forward. The sound of the rain drowns out everything—the roar of the engine, the sound of my breaths, even the voice screaming at me in the back of my head to stop.
I know where Richard lives. I know what I’m walking into.
The drive is a blur of headlights, rain streaks, and wipers squealing against the glass. My knuckles turn white against the wheel. Every turn, every shadow feels like it’s watching me, closing in. I try to focus on the road, but my mind won’t stop spinning.
By the time I pull up to Richard’s sprawling house, my heart feels like it might explode. The mansion looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. Every window glows faintly, casting eerie light through the sheets of rain. My chest tightens as I see them—two men already waiting by the front drive. Their silhouettes are sharp, unmoving, like statues carved out of the night itself.
I slow the car, and they move. My stomach twists violently as they step forward, boots splashing through puddles. Before I’ve even stopped fully, they’re there—one on each side. Rainwater drips from their faces, but they don’t flinch. Their hands rest on their weapons. Ready.
One of them raps on the window hard enough to make me jump.
I slowly roll it down, letting rain find its way into the car. “Richard is expecting me; tell him Luna is here.”
One of the men has his hand resting on his gun while the other speaks into a walkie-talkie; I’m sure he’s letting Richard know I’m here. After a moment, the man turns back to me.
“Get out,” one growls, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the storm.
I do as they say, every movement slow, deliberate, as though I can fool them into thinking I’m not terrified. The rain soaks through my clothes instantly, cold and punishing. My knees threaten to give out, but I lift my chin and step out, pretending I’m stronger than I feel.
The taller man keeps his gaze fixed on me, his eyes like stone, unblinking. His partner’s fingers twitch near the holster of his gun. They’re waiting for something—a signal, maybe, or just one wrong move. The silence is broken by a crackle, sharp and jarring, from the walkie-talkie clipped to the taller man’s belt.
Richard’s voice bursts through the static, cold and unmistakable.
“Bring her to me.”
This is it.
One of them grips my arm, not painfully, but firmly enough to remind me that I’m not going anywhere. They guide me forward, and with every step toward the house, my pulse pounds harder. The massive doors are waiting, cracked open just enough to show a sliver of light inside. My heart screams at me to run, but my legs keep moving.
The doors close behind us with a deafening thud, and suddenly, the storm outside feels mild compared to what’s brewing inside this house.