Chapter 6
Chapter six
Trapped in Green Velvet
Cillian
The lock clicks. She flinches. I expect fire. A slap. A scream. What I get is worse. Her silence. She turns back to the piano, fingers frozen over the keys, spine straight as a blade. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.
“You locked it.”
“I did.”
Her head turns. Slowly. Deliberately. “So help me God, if you think—”
“There’s a storm coming, Dove.” I don’t flinch when she rises. I want her fury. I earned it. “But by all means, grab your stolen keys and try your luck on those windy country roads.”
Her nostrils flare. Her chin lifts. “You don’t get to keep me here.”
I step further into the room, slow and patient. Like I’m taming something wild. “No, darling. I do. Because like it or not, this is still my home—”
She laughs, humorless and sharp. “You think I didn’t notice? The grand piano. The new paint. The books I gave you still on the shelf.”
I smile. Just a little. “You broke in. Don’t act shocked that it feels like you never left.”
She goes still again. Not quiet—still. The kind of still that makes a man regret breathing.
“I’ll take the couch,” I offer. “If you prefer the bed.”
“Fuck your couch.”
She storms past me, shoving the bedroom door open so hard it bangs against the wall. I follow her, even though I shouldn’t. Even though I already know what she’s about to find. The wall of glass. The white-out beyond it. The wind howling over the hills.
She stops in front of it. Doesn’t speak for a beat. “How bad is it?”
“Roads are already gone.”
She turns to face me, framed by snow and fury. “This is a kidnapping.”
“Hardly. You drove yourself here.”
“And you locked the bloody door!”
I nod. “And I’ll unlock it. When it’s safe.”
Her eyes blaze. Her hands clench. And then she slams the bedroom door so hard the paintings on the wall shudder. I should leave it there. But fuck, I can’t help the smile. Because she’s here. And she’s mine again. Whether she knows it yet or not.
I walk back into the main room—the one I rebuilt from the bones of our childhood. The cottage wasn’t much when I returned. Cracked beams. Mice in the walls. Dust thick enough to bury the ghosts of us both. But I kept it. And I made it ours again. Even if she never came back.
The green velvet armchair in the corner? Hers. I tracked one down at an antique market because she used to say that real reading chairs needed curves, not corners.
The baby grand? That damn thing nearly broke me. Imported it. Tuned it myself. Played the same song for a year waiting to forget the way she used to lean against it barefoot in the summer, eyes closed, humming the harmony under her breath.
The stained glass window over the sink? She drew it when she was thirteen. Sketched it out on graph paper with her favorite green pen and made me promise I’d install it if we ever had a real home. I framed the original drawing. Hung it above the fireplace. She never knew.
Every detail here—this place that no one but me has touched—is a memory stitched in brick and wood.
The books on the shelf aren’t random. They’re hers. The same ones she used to dog-ear and annotate with angry little scribbles in the margins. I hunted down identical copies. Some are signed. Some smell like her favorite used bookstore in Dublin.
The teacups in the cupboard match the ones from her mam’s kitchen. The garden out back is full of wild lavender and heather, because she used to say real beauty wasn’t planted—it survived.
And now she’s in the next room. Mad as sin. But she’s here. Just like we dreamed of when we were kids, hiding in the hayloft from the world. Whispering about a future no one believed we could have.
Back then, it was just pretend. A safehouse. A home. A life that didn’t belong to bloodlines or bullets. Now? Now it’s all real. I don’t give myself time to think.
Just head for the kitchen, let the rhythm of motion scrape the edge off my thoughts.
Hands steady even though my ribs still ache like hell, and there’s blood crusted on the hem of my sleeve.
She’s in the next room. Breathing the same air as me for the first time in years. Mad as sin, sure. But here.
I open the fridge. Local market run paid off — I’ve got what I need. I grab the chicken, lemons, rosemary, the good butter she used to hoard like it was gold. Toss it all on the counter like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
The oven’s already hot — I made damn sure it always would be.
State-of-the-art dual range, one for roasting, one for baking.
Brass knobs, emerald green enamel finish.
I picked it because it reminded me of her eyes.
Even back then, I built this place for her.
Every cabinet, every tile. She never asked. Never needed to. I remembered.
I cut the lemons into quarters. Stuff the bird. Slather it with butter, rosemary, salt. No measuring — she always said flavor wasn’t something you could count. Just feel it.
Behind me, the spice rack creaks. Hand-carved from old stable wood. Still has our initials carved into the side, shallow and stupid from when we were kids hiding in the loft and pretending this place was ours. It is now.
I slide the pan into the oven. Wipe my hands. Pour two glasses of wine — not the cheap shit. Bordeaux. From that vineyard in France she always talked about visiting one day. I set it on the table. Light the candles. Not because I think she’ll care. Not tonight. But because I do. I care.
Because I remember the way she used to sketch table settings in the margins of her notebooks. The way she said she wanted a kitchen people would gather in, not just pass through. A place for holidays. For warmth. For the kind of love that doesn’t ask for permission to stay. So I gave her one.
Even if she never came back. And now she’s here. Door slammed. Voice sharp enough to split bone. But she’s here. I lean on the counter. Exhale slow. Let the silence wrap around me. Let it hurt.
I look around the stable—now a home. Ours. Or it was supposed to be. Rouge called me a fool for doing all this. Said turning the old training barn into a house was a waste of money and time, especially for a ghost I might never see again. But I didn’t build it for a ghost. I built it for her.
The upstairs is still unfinished. Four bedrooms, just like we dreamed of when we were kids. A blank canvas, waiting for her touch. For crayon marks and tiny socks, for noise and lullabies and the kind of chaos only a house full of love can make. She doesn’t know about that yet.
She only sees the kitchen. The stone counters. The dining table long enough to seat a family. That damn baby grand in the corner—sanded down, painted white like she used to talk about when we were seventeen and stupid and thought love was enough. It’s hers. All of it. Always has been.
I push off the counter and walk slow toward the bedroom door. I knock once.
“Come out, darling,” I say, voice even. “Dinner’s ready.”
A pause. Then, sharp and vicious. “No.”
I huff a breath through my nose, lean against the frame. “Don’t be like that.”
Silence.
“C’mon, Dove.”
A solid thud hits the other side of the door—followed by a heavy thunk as something bounces against it and lands flat.
She threw her boot at the door.
My grin barely has time to settle before I hear it. That telltale slam—closet doors being yanked open like she’s going to rip them clean off the hinges. And then the pause. I know what she’s seeing.
Rows of custom dresses, silk and leather and lace. Shoes in every style and shade she ever used to wear. Jewelry in glass trays. Coats lined in fur. Lingerie soft enough to make a man drop to his knees. All of it, for her. Not because I thought she’d come back. Because I knew she would.
I step back from the door. She’s about to come out swinging.
And she’s going to look so goddamn good doing it.
I don’t go far—just across the hall to the dining room.
Sit at the long oak table I had restored last spring.
Thought she might like it. Big enough for the holidays. Big enough for kids, eventually.
I pour the wine. No candlelight, no playlist, no fake ambiance. Just me and the echo of her stomping around, throwing a fit loud enough to rattle the beams. Boot hits the bedroom door a second later. I grin into my glass.
“Come eat, dove.”
“No,” she snaps through the door, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Another thud.
I raise my brows. “That wasn’t very ladylike.”
“Neither is kidnapping Dublin’s Darling Daughter.”
She’s unraveling just like I knew she would. And fuck me, it’s going to be a battle. She’s about to explode. So I just sit. Glass in hand. Elbows on the table. And wait for the storm I built.
“Siobhán, darling. Let’s just get that behind us and enjoy a meal together.”
The bedroom door rips open and she stands in the frame. “Go dtachtfadh an diabhal thú.”1
“Now, now, Dove. Such a filthy little mouth on such a pretty girl. But let’s get one thing straight. If there’s any devil doing the choking in this house, it’s me. And we both know which one of us begs for it.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t flinch. Not when she speaks to me in that tongue. Not when she spits venom and stands there like a goddamn specter draped in silk and shadows. And then I really look at her.
She changed. That robe's loose, barely hanging on, like even the fabric knows it doesn’t deserve to touch her.
Dark green silk clings to every curve—draped like temptation itself across her body, slipping over her hips, barely brushing the tops of her thighs.
No shoes. No armor. Just bare skin, long legs, and eyes that promise war.
She walks toward me slow. Controlled. Her steps are quiet, but her rage echoes in the room.
My gaze drags down her frame, slow and unapologetic. That nightgown wasn’t made for modesty. It was made to be peeled off. And fuck if I don’t want to be the one to do it—with my teeth.
But there’s fire in her tonight. Not just fury. No, this is the kind of heat that warns you right before you burn. And I let it. I let her come closer. Because if this is hell, then I’ll go up in flames smiling.
She doesn’t stop walking. Just keeps coming, slow and sinfully silent, until she’s standing over me.
Then she leans in. One hand on the armrest. The other on the opposite side of my chair.
Her body cages me in—bare legs brushing my knee, silk brushing her thighs, robe falling open just enough to make me lose all coherent thought.
She bends low, closer, until her lips are at my ear. And I can’t fucking move. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m hard as a goddamn rock and trying not to grab her by the waist and drag her into my lap like an animal.
The scent of her—vanilla and fury and something I always fucking crave—wraps around me like a noose. I swallow hard. Every inch of her is a weapon. And I’m about one second away from surrendering.
She leans in until her lips nearly brush the shell of my ear.
Voice low. Sultry. Lethal. “Funny how men like you always mistake cages for castles, Cillian.” Her breath is warm against my skin.
“You build a home out of ash and ruin, fill it with silk and stolen memories… and you think that’ll make me kneel?
” A pause. She’s smiling. I feel it. Then she whispers it, sweet as a curse, in perfect, haunting Irish.
“Is ceann de na h-óinseacha diabhail thú.”2
And then she pulls back, slow and deliberate, and saunters away like she didn’t just carve my pride open and light it on fire.
I don’t move. Just watch the sway of her hips as she disappears down the hall. Bare feet. Dark green silk. Venom still dripping from her lips. And I swear, I’ve never wanted war more than I do now. Especially when she looks like that.
Let it come, then, dove. Let it fucking come.
1. Go dtachtfadh an diabhal thú" is an Irish curse meaning "May the devil choke you".
2. Is ceann de na h-ónseacha diabhal thú is an Irish curse meaning “You are one of the devil’s chosen.”