Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
RIAN
I try my best not to stare at the entrance like I’m waiting for someone special to walk in, even though that’s precisely what I’m doing.
The Olympia glitters tonight. The balcony is draped in gold.
The velvet curtains are a deep shade of bronze.
Bollinger fizzes in crystal flutes all around me—the bubbles a direct mirror of what’s going on inside my stomach.
The knowledge that any minute now the woman who spent the night in my apartment is about to walk in is killing me.
Sean leans against the railing of our private box, his arm draped around Layla’s waist like she’s his crown jewel.
She is, really. Princess or not, she’s got my brother grinning like an idiot every five seconds.
And I just know whatever he’s whispering in her ear is utter filth.
A pang of longing hits my stomach like a punch.
Not for Layla, obviously, but for the easy intimacy she and Sean share.
Adjacent to them, my brother Killian is bickering with Avery in that sexy, can’t-keep-their-hands-off-each-other way they do.
James and Scarlett are canoodling like horny fucking teenagers as usual.
And me… well, I’m the entertainment—as usual.
‘So, tell me,’ I say, topping up my own glass. ‘Are any of you stunning beauties ready to replace my boring old brothers for a new, improved, younger model?’ I tease, waggling my eyebrows.
Humour’s my weapon.
Always has been.
As long as I’m the joker, the player, no one will ask why my eyes keep flicking to the door.
Sean narrows his eyes. James thumps my arm. Killian’s expression turns positively murderous. ‘The only one being replaced will be you if you don’t watch your mouth. Our parents won’t like it if I bury you in your own bullshit, but I’ll buy them a dog or something to make up for it.’
‘Ah, I’m only having the craic. Don’t be so touchy.’ I take a huge mouthful of Bollinger.
‘I’m going to shove your champagne glass up your crack if you don’t shut your mouth.’ Sean growls, pulling Layla tighter into his chest.
‘You know I haven’t ruled out you being bi yet, and statements like that aren’t helping your cause,’ I goad.
Avery snorts back a laugh, and Killian slaps her ass.
And then the air shifts. I don’t even need to turn around to know she’s here. Every cell in my body vibrates with an awareness that assures me she’s near.
Rebekka.
She struts in with Ivy and Caelon, her arm looped through Ivy’s like they’re underaged schoolgirls sneaking into a nightclub instead of two elegant women arriving at one of Dublin’s most exclusive gigs.
My chest seizes as though someone’s clamped a fist around it.
The crowd, the lights, the background music fade.
All I see is her. A slip of black silk hugs her skin like sin itself.
A leather jacket encases her shoulders. Her long legs are sheathed in black shimmering tights—or are they stockings? Fuck, what I wouldn’t do to find out.
Her green eyes scan the room for a split second until they find mine.
Electricity pierces the air.
How has none of my family noticed? Well, apart from Zara. She notices everything. Maybe because unlike our siblings, she’s not preoccupied with sticking her tongue down her spouse’s throat. Thankfully, like me, she doesn’t have a spouse. I dread the day she finds one.
I crack a grin at Rebekka to cover the fact that I can’t fucking breathe.
She smiles back. And it’s a real one. One that reaches the corners of both her beautiful eyes—and every fucking corner of my delinquent heart.
James chooses this precise moment to rib me about my reputation. ‘You’re the only brother who hasn’t found a woman yet. Maybe it’s you who’s gay or bi?’
Sean snorts. Killian guffaws. Caelon shakes his head as he reaches us. ‘Rebekka, cover your ears. My brothers are being vulgar—again.’ He pretends to cover Ivy’s ears with his palms, but she swats him off with a giggle. ‘How much have you guys had to drink?’
‘Rian doesn’t need a drink to get dirty,’ Avery announces gleefully.
Killian glowers at her. ‘I meant his mouth.’ Killian’s eyes narrow further.
‘The way he talks.’ Avery rolls her eyes at her fiancé and smacks a disgustingly wet kiss on his lips.
‘Simmer down, big guy, you know I only have eyes for you.’
Rebekka takes the seat beside mine. ‘It would make you sick, wouldn’t it?’ I turn to her, pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek in greeting. She sucks in a breath, like I licked her lips or something.
Can’t say I haven’t thought about it.
And I’m not just talking about the ones on her face.
‘It would,’ she agrees finally, her eyes bore into mine. ‘Sick with envy.’ She laughs, but it sounds forced. The scent of her familiar perfume seeps into my nostrils—spiced vanilla and sin.
My heart sinks to my stomach at the helplessness of our situation, but before I can think of an answer, Zara bursts in, greeting everyone with hugs and kisses before finally squeezing herself neatly into the space beside Sean and Layla.
No surprise there—my little sister’s latched onto her newest sister-in-law to be like ivy on stone.
To Zara, Layla’s more than just Sean’s fiancée; she’s still a princess, even if she’s traded palaces for passion.
Avery is also obsessed with the latest addition to the Beckett family, but she’s been obsessed with Layla since long before they met.
She used to stalk her on Instagram and gush over her outfits.
Now she gets to claim her as family, which still cracks me the fuck up.
I reach for the crystal bucket and pop the wire cage off another chilled bottle of Bollinger.
The cork eases free with a low sigh, foam bubbling at the lip.
I pour two fresh flutes, passing one to Zara before turning to Rebekka.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the crystal stem, and there it is again—that same livewire spark that’s haunted me since the night we met.
Static that feels like fire. Her startled eyes flick up to mine.
She feels it too. And I can’t work out which is worse—that she’s in this with me, or if she wasn’t and there was no hope at all.
What am I thinking?
It doesn’t matter either way.
Whether she feels the same or not, it doesn’t change anything.
I cover my turbulent emotions with another lopsided grin, and raise my own glass. ‘Glad you could make it,’ I say.
‘Me too.’ Her lips twitch as she clinks my flute.
And then the house lights dim and a hush falls over the theatre. A single spotlight slices through the dark, catching on a tall figure with a guitar slung across his chest. Hozier steps up to the microphone, his long frame relaxed, his voice low as he greets the crowd, then starts to play.
The first notes roll out—raw, aching, soulful. It doesn’t sound like a performance, not really. It feels like a confession, like he’s pouring pieces of himself into every chord. His voice weaves through the room, deep and husky, wrapping around us all.
Rebekka shifts closer, just enough that her shoulder brushes mine. Even over the music, I’m aware of her every inhale, every exhale. I swear I can feel her pulse through the small points where our bodies connect.
When the chorus swells, our hands graze on the shared armrest. Once.
Twice. Three times. I can’t stop stealing glances at her through the darkness.
She’s so fucking stunning. Huge eyes. Delicate features.
Plump lips that I can’t stop thinking about kissing.
When her hand reaches up to swipe her face, I realise she’s crying.
She swipes her tears away as quick as they fall.
In this very second, I hate my best friend more than I’ve ever hated anyone.
Well, almost.
I hate myself more for not speaking up after their engagement party. For not at least trying to stop the wedding. For not admitting that after one brief exchange with his fiancée, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was meant for me—not him.
Would it have made any difference?
Probably not.
Hozier continues to croon, but one particular set of lyrics lands too close to the bone—something about fire, about wanting, about ruin. Something hot touches my left hand. Heat hijacks my arm. I look down to see Rebekka’s baby finger hooked around mine.
The crowd roars, but all I hear is her tiny hiss. I squeeze the smallest fraction in answer.
I don’t look at her face.
I can’t.
If I do, I’ll forget where we are, who we are, and what we can never be.
She’s here, tethered to me by one finger.
I have no idea what silent promise we’re exchanging, but the one thing I do know is that it’s the most dangerous promise I’ve ever made.