Chapter 4
Declan
The family estate looms at the end of the drive, all stone and ivy and buttloads of money. It’s the first Sunday of the month, which means family dinner, mandatory attendance, mandatory civility, and mandatory displays of O'Rourke unity.
I park behind Ronan's Audi. The driveway resembles a luxury car showroom—German engineering lined up in perfect formation.
My knuckles remain split from last night's workout. I’ve gone two days without sleep, which isn't unusual, but usually it's due to guilt or adrenaline or the faces of men I've put in the ground.
This time it's a face with haunted eyes, a messy braid, and practiced, careful stillness keeping me awake.
It's been seventeen hours since I gave her a phone and a proposal. She has seven more.
The front door opens before I knock. Johnson, the household manager my mother insists isn't a butler, nods with the careful deference of a man who knows exactly what I'm capable of.
"Mr. O'Rourke. They're in the formal living room."
I nod back. Johnson is ex-military. We've never discussed it, but the recognition is mutual.
He carries himself with the vigilant alertness of a man who has seen things—things that have never fully left.
A calculation lives behind his eyes that I respect.
He sees the world the same way I do—as a series of angles, exits, and potential threats.
The formal living room brims with pre-dinner conversation.
Lorcan is sprawled in an armchair, his lankiness a deliberate contrast to the stiff antique upholstery, glass of whiskey in hand.
He's in the middle of a story that requires expansive hand gestures.
Ronan sits on the opposite couch, an amused half-smile playing at his mouth.
Ma occupies her usual throne-like chair, her posture ruler-straight, rings glinting on every finger.
Cillian stands near the window with Nora.
His hand rests at the small of her back in a gesture so casual it's clearly automatic.
Her body angles toward his, not touching except for that point of contact, but oriented in his direction like a compass finding north.
For some reason, I find it hard to pull my gaze from them.
"Declan.” Ma stands extending her cheek for the obligatory kiss. "You're late."
"Traffic," I lie.
"You look exhausted." Her eyes narrow, then flit down to my raw knuckles. "And your hand—"
"Heavy sparring session.”
Ma crosses to the bar cart. "Drink?"
"Whiskey. Neat."
She pours with the precision of a woman who serves alcohol as both hospitality and strategy.
Lorcan finishes his story with a flourish that makes Ronan snort. Something about a bouncer at that club he frequents. I tune it out and accept the crystal tumbler from Ma’s hand.
"Declan," Cillian says, crossing the room. "Glad you made it."
His gaze travels from my face to my wrapped knuckles and back. A question sits there, unvoiced but clear. I answer with a subtle head shake. Not yet. Later.
Nora follows him, and up close, the change in her is striking.
The last time I saw her, she was thin and bruised and hollow-eyed, clinging to a garbage bag of possessions.
Now she stands with her chin up, wearing a dress that fits her properly, curves filling out where malnutrition and fear had carved her down.
Her hand finds Cillian's without looking, fingers twining with his in a gesture that seems instinctual.
"Hi, Declan," she says.
I nod. "Nora."
The dinner bell chimes—an actual silver bell, my ma insists on these small feudal touches. We move to the dining room in a choreographed procession—Cillian and Nora first, Ma on Ronan's arm, Lorcan and me bringing up the rear.
"You look like shit," Lorcan says under his breath.
"Thanks."
"No, seriously." His voice drops lower. "What's up with you? You're wound tighter than usual."
"Focus on keeping your own shit together."
He grins, undeterred by my tone. "But your shit is so much more interesting."
The dining room is formal to the point of parody—crystal chandelier, damask tablecloth, fresh flowers in silver vases. Johnson pulls out Ma’s chair at the head of the table and she nods her imperial thanks.
We settle into our places. I watch Cillian pull out Nora's chair, his hand lingering on her shoulder a beat longer than necessary before he takes his own seat.
The meal unfolds with the precision of a tactical operation. Servers appear and disappear. Plates arrive and depart. Ma asks Nora about her schooling. Nora answers with calm poise—something about online college courses in social work.
I tune out the details and focus on the non-verbal conversation happening between my older brother and his wife.
The way Cillian's hand occasionally finds her knee under the table.
The way she leans in slightly when he speaks, even when he's not addressing her.
The way they communicate in glances—subtle shifts in their faces that seem to form a private language.
I've never had that. Not with anyone. Physical release, yes—discreet arrangements, cash for services. But no relationship. No one who speaks to me in glances. No one who leans into my gravity.
A knot forms in my gut—not envy, not desire. Something I’m not familiar with.
No woman has ever looked at me the way Nora looks at Cillian. And I’m certain no woman ever will.
I’ve been grappling with the idea of having a wife since a short time after Cillian wed Nora. I figured it’s time for me to take that step. It’s what’s expected of a man in my position in the organization.
I knew Ma could arrange it—a suitable match from one of the allied families. The daughter of a capo, perhaps. Someone who understands our world. Someone raised like Ma, trained to be the steel backbone behind a powerful man.
But as fast as the idea of Ma arranging a marriage for me came, I rejected it. I respect my ma. But the last thing I want is to be tied to a replica of Kathleen O'Rourke for the next forty years. Better to remain single for the rest of my days than live with Ma’s clone.
"Declan?"
I blink. Ma is staring at me.
"Your insights on the zoning issue?"
I haven't been listening. Cillian steps in smoothly, redirecting the conversation, and I drain my whiskey.
After dessert, Ma stands. "Nora, shall we retire to the sitting room? The men have business to discuss."
Nora rises with practiced grace—a skill she's acquired remarkably fast. She squeezes Cillian's shoulder as she passes him, and he covers her hand with his. The gesture is brief but loaded with meaning.
Once they're gone, Lorcan refills the whiskey glasses and Cillian's face shifts. The loving husband recedes as the head of the family business emerges.
"The Callahan situation," he says.
We discuss territory, respect, boundaries. The incursion three weeks ago that left one of our warehouses ransacked and two of our men hospitalized. The response we've already made and the one we're planning. The intelligence Ronan has gathered on their operation.
Cillian's gaze comes to me. "And the witness situation?"
He knows, of course. I should have expected this. Cillian makes it his business to know everything that could impact the family.
"Handled."
"How?"
There’s a long pause.
I didn't expect to do this right here right now, but I suppose it has to be done, and now is as good a time as any.
"I'm marrying her."
The silence that follows is dense with shock. Lorcan's whiskey glass freezes halfway to his mouth. Ronan straightens in his chair. Even Cillian's composure slips for a fraction of a second, his eyebrows rising before he controls his expression.
"Holy shit," Lorcan breathes. “Like, actual marriage? With rings and vows and everything?"
"Jesus, Declan," Ronan leans forward. “Tell me you’re joking. You've only known about her existence for what—a couple of days? This isn’t like you. You're not exactly the impulsive type."
Cillian observes me with those piercing eyes, his reaction mirroring the one I gave him months ago when he announced he was marrying Nora.
"This is certainly…unexpected," he says carefully.
They're all waiting for an explanation. I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn slide down my throat before speaking. "It's time. Men in my position, my age—it's expected."
"Expected?" Lorcan snorts. "Since when do you give a fuck about expectations? And, last I checked, you weren’t exactly the warm, fuzzy, relationship type.”
Ronan studies my face. “There has to be more to this than you're saying. Who is she exactly? Is she connected? Important family?"
“No,” I say flatly. "When Finn and I took care of the Monaghan situation. She witnessed the hit."
The room goes quiet again.
"So this is how you silence witnesses now?” Ronan asks sarcastically.
"It's about convenient timing.” My voice hardens. "I've been thinking it's time I had a wife. Ma's been pushing."
"But why her?" Lorcan presses. "Is she smokin’ hot or something?"
I glare at him with enough intensity to make him raise his hands in surrender.
"I'm just asking what everyone's thinking."
I can't even be mad. Not really. Of course, they wanna know why I chose a homeless woman I barely know to be Mrs. Declan O'Rourke. And if I had an answer for that, I'd give it to them. The problem is, I don't even know why I chose her.
I let out a slow breath and run a hand through my hair.
“She's indigent. A product of the failed foster care system.
When I found her, she was sleeping in a laundromat chair with her shoes on and her bag clutched in a death grip.
As far as I can tell, she's got no one and nothing.
" I trace the rim of my glass. "I had two options with which to silence her. I chose one."
I don't tell them the rest. I don't tell them about the grainy security footage of her running through the rain, terror written across her face.
I don't tell them about the strange tightness in my chest when I saw her sleeping in that plastic chair, the fine architecture of her collarbones where her jacket slipped off one shoulder.
I don't tell them that the decision to propose marriage wasn't calculated at all, or that when it came out of my mouth in a laundromat at 3 AM, it shocked me as much as it shocked her.
"I've made my decision,” I say with finality.
Cillian studies me for another long moment, then nods once. I recognize the expression in his eyes—not just acceptance, but understanding. He knows there's more to this than I'm saying.
"If you're sure,” Cillain says.
"I am."
“Fine.” He nods. “Then you have my support.”
Ronan’s lips twist as he considers this. “The marriage protects the family, too."
"Does Ma know?" Lorcan asks.
"Not yet."
Lorcan whistles low. "Good luck with that conversation."
"Let's move on," Cillian says, mercifully redirecting. "The Callahan situation needs our attention."
The discussion shifts to territory disputes and security protocols, but I catch Cillian's occasional glance.
“So, you never answered. Is she hot?" Lorcan asks under his breath as he leans closer to me.
I glare at him.
"What? If she's gonna be family, I'm curious." His grin is sly, knowing. "You’re not the type to make this kind of call without a damn good reason, is all.”
I don't dignify his stupid question with a response, but Lorcan's smirk tells me he doesn’t need an answer.
Later, during goodbyes, I observe Cillian and Nora together in the foyer. I note the way his hand rests on the small of her back. The way she leans into him, her hip against his. The natural familiarity between them.
I look away, but the image burns into my memory.
I know Saoirse and I won’t have that. Our arrangement will be tactical, nothing more.
I cut the thought off and go home.
The brownstone is quiet, empty.
I shower under steaming hot water, letting it soothe the day's tension knotting between my shoulder blades, and my mind does what it's been doing for hours, despite my attempts to shut it down.
I picture her face. Not the terror in the alley—the stillness in the laundromat. The way a strand of her hair had fallen across her cheek. The impossible delicacy of her bones. The softness of her skin.
I brace one arm on the tile. The water beats against the back of my neck as my hand moves up and down my cock, stroking almost angrily, like my body is betraying a perimeter my mind has established.
The image sharpens without my permission—her throat, pale and exposed. Her arms crossed over the duffel bag. Her large, frightened eyes.
My grip tightens. My breathing goes ragged.
I think about the way her pulse kicked when I held her in my grasp, and what it would feel like to press my mouth to that pulse point—to feel her heartbeat against my chest to taste her lips.
To trace the line of her throat with my tongue and feel her shiver. To hear the sound she'd make if I—
“Ugh…fuck…” I come hard, jets of semen spurting on the tile wall. My forehead drops against the wet tile, her name bitten off behind my teeth.
I remain that way for a long time with images of her playing through my mind.
After my shower, I still can’t sleep. I should go down to the basement and do what I always do to burn off extra energy—hit the bag. Bleed off the anxiety that's been building since the laundromat, since the alley, since the moment I saw her face in grainy security footage.
Jerking off to thoughts of her in the shower was probably not a great idea. Instead of getting rid of the desire flowing through my veins, it’s now seeping into parts of me I thought were armored against these things.
I sit on the edge of my bed in the semi-darkness, wrapping my hands with tape before heading down to the basement—left, right, methodical, like a ritual.
My phone is on the nightstand. No missed calls. No messages. She has a few hours left.
I think about the laundromat again. The way she rubbed her wrist after I let go—compulsive, disbelieving, like her skin couldn't stop replaying the contact. I watched her do it.
I glance at the phone again.
If she doesn't call, I'll have to make a different kind of decision. The kind I've made a hundred times. This time it will feel different.
Finally, my phone lights up on the nightstand.
Her number. The number of a phone I gave to a girl I should have killed.
The screen glows in the dark room. It rings once. Twice. My hand doesn't move toward it—not due to hesitation, but something has my muscles seizing so completely I'm not sure my body is taking orders anymore.
It rings a third time before I pick up.