Chapter 7
Saoirse
I stand on the corner of Division and Ashland with the credit card in my pocket and a plan I’m nervously uncertain about.
Four blocks north. Two west. I've mapped the neighborhood in my head—coffee shop, bodega, dry cleaner, pawnshop. A boutique with mannequins in the window wearing dresses I'd never look at twice.
Except I'm looking now.
I'm Mrs. Declan O'Rourke. The wife of a man who is important in this city. Walking around in thrift store jeans and a threadbare sweater sends the wrong message.
This marriage might be a farce, and I might be temporary, but I agreed to play the part, and I suppose that means not looking like an imposter every time I step outside.
Isn't that why my husband gave me cash and a credit card? I don't know why he did it, actually, but I would imagine it's because he wants me to dress better and do a better job of playing the part of his wife by flashing around some money.
The boutique door chimes when I push through. Inside, everything is cream and pale wood and expensive fabric on hangers spaced too far apart. A woman behind the counter looks up. She's in her mid 50s, looks elegant, and wears a strand of pearls at her throat.
I brace for it. The up-down assessment. The subtle shift in posture that says you don't belong here. The polite smile that isn't polite at all. The whole Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman schtick.
It doesn't come. Instead, she rounds the counter with her hands clasped.
"Mrs. O'Rourke." Her voice is warm and genuine. "We've been hoping you'd come in."
I freeze. "You know who I am?"
"Of course." She gestures toward a rack near the back. "Your husband called ahead. Said you might need a few things."
The floor tilts under me. "He called ahead?"
"Two days ago." She's already pulling items—a blouse, a pair of jeans, a jacket in soft charcoal. "He didn't specify sizes, but I can adjust if these don't work."
I stand there holding the blouse while my brain tries to process. Declan called. Declan, who barely looks at me. Declan, who times his movements around the house to avoid crossing my path.
"Try them on," the woman says, nodding toward a curtained alcove. "Take your time."
The jeans fit. So does the blouse. The jacket settles on my shoulders like it was made for me, and when I step out, the woman smiles.
"Perfect. I'll wrap those up. Would you like to see the dresses?"
"I don't need—"
"Nonsense. A woman in your position needs options." She's already moving toward another rack. "Your husband is very generous with the neighborhood, you know. Fixed Mrs. Halloran's roof last winter. Paid for the Garcia boy's surgery. Never asks for anything in return."
I blink. "He did?"
"Oh, yes." She drapes a navy dress over her arm. "The O'Rourkes take care of this neighborhood. Always have."
I leave the boutique with three bags and a head full of contradictions.
At the coffee shop, the barista says, "On the house," as she hands me my latte.
“But I—”
“I know who you are.” When she sees the alarm in my expression, her voice softens. “Your husband helped my brother last year. Got him a job when nobody else would hire him. All Darius needed was a fresh start, and Declan gave him one.” She pushes the cup toward me. “O’Rourkes don't pay here.”
I take the latte because I don't know what else to do.
On the walk back, an older woman stops me. She has a helmet of gray hair, kind eyes, and a grocery bag clutched in her hand.
"You're Declan's wife." Not a question.
"Yes."
She steps closer and pats my arm. "Good boy, that one. Fixed my furnace last February when I couldn't afford the repair and wouldn't accept a dime." Her eyes crinkle. “Take good care of him, dear."
I nod. My throat refuses to work.
Good is not the word I’d use for a man I watched execute someone with the emotional register of someone checking a task off a list.
But I’ve noticed things too.
Yesterday, I saw him feeding a stray cat on the fire escape. He left a small handful of cat food on the fire escape ledge. He didn’t know I was watching from my bedroom window.
It was an odd sight. I didn’t think he was the kind of man who’d show tenderness to an animal.
When I round the corner onto Declan's street, the same tabby cat darts across my path and stops at the base of the stairs leading up to the brownstone. It sits. Waits.
I climb the steps, and the cat follows.
At the door, I glance down. The cat looks up at me with yellow eyes, patient and expectant.
I push inside, and the cat slips through behind me.
In the kitchen, I set the bags on the counter and crouch. The cat winds around my ankles, purring.
"Does he feed you?"
The cat doesn't answer, but when I open the pantry, I find a bag of cat food tucked behind the canned goods.
I stare at it for a long moment, and as I do, I hear an odd rhythmic thud coming from below, from the basement, muffled and insistent.
I leave the cat with a bowl of food and move toward the sound. The basement door is ajar. Stairs descend into a pool of fluorescent glow.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, but curiosity wins out. I take them one at a time, one hand on the railing.
At the bottom, the basement opens up into a converted gym with weights against the wall, a bench press, and a heavy punching bag. Declan is shirtless and barefoot with his fists wrapped in tape. He’s slamming them into the heavy bag with a force that makes the chains rattle.
I stop at the base of the stairs and watch.
His back is to me. Broad shoulders slick with sweat. Muscle shifting under skin with every strike. His spine curves and straightens, abs contracting, obliques flexing. The rhythm is brutal, relentless. Left, right, left, right. The bag swings. The chains creak.
I know the look. I've worn it myself—the kind of fury that needs an outlet or it turns inward and eats you alive. He's not training. He's purging.
He pivots, and I see his face. Jaw tight. Eyes unfocused. A man alone with whatever demons he's trying to beat into submission.
My pulse kicks. The reaction isn't fear. It's longing. Heat races through my body and settles low in my stomach. A sexual pull I’ve never felt before.
The breadth of him. The raw, physical power. The way his body moves—efficient, dangerous, and controlled even in violence. I've seen dangerous men before. I've cataloged them, avoided them, and survived them.
This feels different.
He catches the bag mid-swing and stills.
Then he turns.
His eyes find mine across the basement, and the air between us thickens.
I should leave. Go back upstairs. Pretend I didn't see this.
Instead, I stay.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches me, his chest heaving, sweat trailing down his six-pack abs. His face gives me nothing—jaw set, eyes flat and dark, but his nostrils flare once.
I swallow hard. “I let the cat in.”
His brow furrows. "What?"
"Upstairs. A tabby. It followed me in." I gesture vaguely toward the stairs. “I saw you feeding it."
His shoulders drop half an inch. The tension doesn't leave his face, but his jaw unclenches. "It showed up last winter. Wouldn't leave."
"You adopted it."
"I kept it from starving. That's not the same thing."
"There's a bag of cat food in the pantry."
He exhales through his nose. "It's a stray."
I cross my arms watching this man who handed me a credit card and more money than I’ve ever seen in my life, who found a barista’s brother a job, and who fixed an old lady’s furnace, as he unwraps the tape from his hands with methodical precision, pulling each loop free without looking at me.
"You're not what I thought you were." I blurt out the words before I think better of it, then wince when I realize what I just said.
His hands still. He looks up, and the weight of his gaze pins me in place.
"What did you think I was?"
I shrug. A monster. I don’t want to say it aloud, but it’s the truth.
“I..um…I guess I didn’t really know.” The answer’s a cop-out, but it’s all I can manage at the moment.
He doesn't respond. Just stares at me, his brow furrowed. I’m aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the sheen of sweat on his sculpted muscles, and the faint scar near his ribs.
"You're staring," he says, voice low.
"You're half-naked."
"You came down here."
"I heard a noise."
"And you're still here."
I am. I'm still here, in a basement with a man I married to survive, a man I've been avoiding for days, a man whose body is doing things to my nervous system I don't have words for.
His eyes drop to my mouth and linger.
Then he drops his gaze.
"Go upstairs, Saoirse."
It's not a command. It's a warning. One I heed.
I turn and climb the stairs, my legs shaking, my pulse rioting in my ears.
At the top, I take a long breath.
Behind me, the rhythmic thud resumes.
I close the door and lean against it, staring at the cat now curled on a chair.
No, Declan O'Rourke is not at all what I thought.
And I have no idea what to do with that.