Chapter 5 #2
I narrow my eyes at him. “There’s a difference?”
He grins. “Debatable.”
We sit in silence for a beat. The kind of silence that tastes like secrets and stale whiskey. Then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice quieter now.
“You were good last night,” he says. “Too good.”
“You sound like that’s a problem.”
“It is,” he says, deadpan. “For everyone watching him lose his mind every time you touch those keys.”
I raise a brow. He shrugs.
“I like watching him unravel,” Rogue says, not even pretending to lie.
I snort, but there’s no humor in it. Just the low hum of panic I’ve been trying to mute since Cillian’s fingers brushed my throat last night. Since he looked at me like he’d crawl through fire just to burn with me.
I shove my chair back and stand, wiping my fingers on the cloth napkin. “Let’s see what Daddy’s little monster picked out, shall we?”
Rogue makes a show of leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head. “Don’t act like you’re not curious.”
I unzip the garment bag, expecting something theatrical—red silk, black lace, maybe another bloodstained metaphor with a price tag.
Instead, I find winter. A cream wool turtleneck, soft enough to make me pause.
High neck, fitted sleeves, double-stitched cuffs.
Under it, dark navy trousers tailored so perfectly I can already feel the fabric skim my thighs.
A long ivory coat hangs behind them, structured shoulders and a subtle belt. Elegant. Timeless. The kind of thing you wear when you need the world to remember you’re a storm in silk gloves. There’s a card tucked in the coat’s inner pocket. Rogue raises a brow as I slide it free.
My dove,
The world may demand velvet cages.
Wear armor instead.
— C
I fold it before Rogue can make another quip. But he just grins, eyes lazy. “He’s getting poetic,” he drawls. “Must be serious.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice not to betray how my stomach flips. Instead, I head toward the bathroom. “If you’re still here when I come out,” I call over my shoulder, “I’ll shove your hangover down your throat.”
Rogue chuckles. “That’s the spirit.”
I get ready fast. Sleek ponytail. A swipe of gloss.
A dusting of shimmer across the bridge of my nose because it pisses him off when I look like I belong in the sun.
By the time I step out, Rogue’s made himself comfortable with my croissants.
He’s got one boot propped up on the coffee table and a cigarette dangling from his mouth while he texts with his thumb and grins like a bastard. I don’t give him time to comment.
“I’m heading out,” I say breezily, slinging the coat over my shoulders like I was born in Burberry.
He blinks. “Cillian said—”
“Cillian’s not here,” I cut in, already by the door. “But you are. So do me a favor and keep flirting with the receptionist for another ten minutes, would you?”
His mouth twitches. “You’re a menace.”
“Guilty,” I call, while he hurries to follow me. The lobby smells like money and false promises. He makes a beeline for the desk like the good little lap dog he is.
Rogue’s attention is now locked on the girl behind the front desk, his voice a lazy drawl, his smirk doing most of the work.
Which is lucky for me. Because behind the counter sits a set of valet keys.
Black leather fob. Silver tag. The emblem of Cillian’s favorite car glinting like a dare.
I move like smoke. Like song. Lift. Pocket.
Smile. I’m out the front door before the elevator even dings behind me.
The engine hums beneath me, smooth as silk and twice as sinful. Cillian’s car drives like a threat wrapped in luxury—leather interior, precision handling, a growl that kisses the asphalt with every turn. I shouldn't be smiling, but I am. The bastard has good taste.
I take the long way out of the city, slipping past traffic with a practiced hand and a quiet thrill building in my chest. Each mile puts more space between me and the velvet trap of his hotel suite. Between me and common sense.
By the time the estate comes into view—tucked behind wrought iron gates and a line of skeletal trees—my grin has faded into focus. Stone walls. Frost on the hedges. A driveway that curves like a question mark I’m not supposed to answer.
I don’t head for the front gates. Instead, I veer left—down a narrow side path only the O’Dwyer boys and I ever knew. Overgrown hedges scrape the car’s side mirrors, but I keep going. No one’s been back here in years, not since…
The old stables rise from the frostbitten grass like a ghost with good bones.
They’re not just stables anymore. Cillian and I turned them into something else once—painted walls, added a fireplace, dragged in furniture we stole from the main house.
Our hideaway. Our escape. My breath fogs as I kill the engine.
The cottage looms ahead, quiet and waiting.
The cold bites through my pants the second I step out, but I don’t rush. Not here. Not to this place. I trail my fingers over the weathered door as I pass, and just like that—I’m seventeen again.
He’s sprawled on a heap of stolen cushions, one arm behind his head, the other holding a lit candle he’s not supposed to have. Cillian O’Dwyer, too beautiful for his own good, with that smug, dimpled grin that never failed to wreck me.
“We’ll burn the whole place down,” I whisper, slipping off my coat and shivering as I kneel beside him.
He tilts the candle toward me. “Then I guess we’ll have to keep each other warm, won’t we, Dove?”
I hate that nickname. I loved that nickname. I hate him. I loved him.
We’d filled the stables with blankets and lights, snuck out at midnight with purloined whiskey, kissed until the stars forgot their names. This place wasn’t just our escape. It was our promise. He’d made one with a ring from his mother’s drawer.
“Someday,” he murmured, slipping it on my finger. “When the blood dries and the families stop fighting… I’ll make you mine for real.”
I’d believed him. God help me, I’d believed every word.
Now, the lights are long gone. The dust has settled thick. But the ring is still in my box next to my bed—cold, forgotten, and real. I close my eyes. Then I push open the door.
The door creaks shut behind me with a soft click.
Warmth greets me. Real warmth. The fire’s already lit in the stone hearth, casting amber light across honey-colored floorboards and exposed beams. The air smells like aged leather, firewood, and something faintly sweet—cinnamon, maybe. Someone’s been here. Recently.
But it doesn’t feel threatening. It feels like memory come alive.
The cottage has been transformed. What was once crumbling horse stalls now holds a velvet sofa, oil paintings, and an actual chandelier strung from the rafters like some forgotten jewel.
A tea set sits beside a half-finished book on the side table.
And there, in the corner—impossible to miss—is the baby grand piano.
My breath catches. It’s still here. It gleams like it’s been cared for, dusted and tuned, as though it’s been waiting for me all this time.
I cross the room slowly, like a dreamer afraid of waking.
My fingers brush the polished edge before I sit, tugging off my gloves and laying them gently on the bench.
I press a single key. Then another. And then—
The music spills out of me, unplanned, unfiltered.
A bleeding heart poured into ivory and resonance.
It’s not the piece from last night. This one is older.
Ours. The melody twists and changes. I press harder, faster.
The notes aren’t clean anymore. They’re jagged and breathless, fingers slipping into sharp dissonance.
Something inside me cracks open. I play like I want to be heard. Like I want to be punished.
A shadow moves behind me. I don’t stop. I know it’s Cillian. He says nothing at first—doesn’t need to. I feel him in the room, carved from stillness and storm. I feel his stare like frostbite crawling up my spine. The tempo stutters. Then steadies.
His voice, low and razor-soft, finally cuts through the air. “You always played like you were trying to set the world on fire.”
I don’t turn around. But I do keep playing—harder now, faster. Every note strikes like a match, reckless and loud and aching. The bench shifts. He’s close enough to touch. Close enough I feel the heat of him like a fever. Still, I don’t look at him.
Cillian’s voice is low. “What are you trying to prove, darling?”
“That I can still burn,” I whisper. “Even when soaked in silence.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. Just breathes—sharp, shallow, controlled. Then his hand slides around my wrist. Not tight. Not harsh. Just enough to still the next chord. The piano rings out in protest, then quiets. My breath catches.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You always do, just before you let go.”
Finally, I look at him. His face is carved from memory—sharper now, harder. But those eyes? They still know me too well. Too much weight in that stare. Too much heat. I pull my wrist back, but he doesn’t let go. He just shifts, pressing his palm to the top of my hand, guiding it to the keys.
“Play,” he says. “For me this time.”
I try. But his touch ruins me. Each note is warped by the thrum in my blood, the heat in my throat, the pressure behind my ribs.
He leans in. His breath skates over my neck. “You don’t get to hide behind the melody, Dove.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“No?” he murmurs. “Then why do you only come back when you think no one’s looking?”
His other hand braces beside mine, trapping me between the piano and his body. Every inch of me is on fire. He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. He just… waits. And I hate him for knowing I’ll break the silence first.
I hold his gaze. Refuse to look away. But he’s the one who moves.
Cillian straightens slowly, hand falling from the piano like it never meant anything.
Like I didn’t just hand him my pulse and dare him to squeeze.
Without a word, he walks to the door. Clicks the lock.
The sound is soft. Final. A velvet threat.
Then he turns, one brow arched, a ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, and darling?”
I lift my chin.
“If you’re going to steal my car,” he says, voice dark silk and smoke, “try not to leave it parked like a bloody declaration on the front drive next time.”
He leaves me there. Hands trembling. Heart howling.