Chapter 8 #2
She whirls on me now. “A promise to who? I left. I disappeared. I didn’t write, I didn’t call—”
“—and still, I knew you’d come back.” I cut her off, voice low. “Not for him. Not for the fucking gala. For this.”
“For what?” she challenges, chin high. “The silk sheets? The memories? The version of me that only exists in your head?”
I lean against the closet doorframe, arms crossed, pretending I’m not holding my breath. She walks past me like she owns the place. Like she always did.
Her shoulder brushes my chest—deliberate, soft. She doesn’t look at me, not at first. Just reaches past the suits and sweaters I tailored to her memory and runs her fingers along the silk and lace I thought she’d never wear.
Her green robe rustles like wind through chapel leaves.
Thin. Winter-defiant. Regal even now. She plucks out a dress.
Then another. Velvet. Wool. Satin-lined blouses in winter tones that match her skin.
I bought them for every season she never came back.
Stocked this closet like it was a shrine.
Like I was praying hard enough, she’d walk into it one day and forgive me.
She steps around me again, hips grazing mine, and lays everything out across the bed in tidy, cruel little piles. Then she turns. And looks right at me.
“Didn’t know if I was ever coming back,” she says, voice light, teasing. But her eyes are sharp. “And yet here you are—filling closets and building homes for a ghost.”
I stay silent. Watching. Because now she’s untucking the robe’s sash from her waist. She doesn’t drop it all at once—no.
She lets it slide, one side then the other, baring her collarbones, her shoulders, the long, elegant curve of her neck.
The green nightgown clings to her like the silk’s afraid to lose her too.
She peels the robe off completely, slow as sin, and folds it. Neatly. Places it at the foot of the bed like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing. But she watches me watching her. She knows what she’s doing. Always has.
“You don’t get to ask why I came back,” she murmurs, gaze unreadable. “Not when you built this place like you already knew the answer.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t want to fight, Dove,” I say.
She tilts her head, a little smile at the corner of her mouth. “Then stop looking at me like you’re starving.”
I take one step forward. Just one. She holds her ground.“I’ll ask you again,” I murmur, voice low. “Why are you really here, darling?”
She meets my stare like she’s bored of the question.
Then her fingers slip beneath the straps of the nightgown.
And she drops it. All of it. Dark green silk puddles around her bare feet like a goddamn offering.
She stands there—naked, unapologetic, glowing like a ruinous vision from the past—and I swear the air leaves my lungs in one brutal, involuntary punch. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Don’t play these games.” My voice comes out hoarse, a growl more than a warning. “Not with me.”
She smirks. Slow. Wicked. Regal. Dangerous. “Who said I’m playing?” she whispers, and moves past me again—intentionally grazing against my arm, my chest, like her skin remembers everything we ever were.
She reaches for the lingerie I bought but never thought I’d get to see on her.
It’s winter-weight, still decadent—deep hunter green with black mesh accents and satin garters.
Beside it on the bed: the heirloom jewels.
My mother’s emerald choker. The diamond cuffs.
Rings she used to try on as a girl and laugh about owning one day.
Siobhán steps into the lace, pulls the straps over her shoulders, then clasps the back like it’s routine.
Like she never left. Then the necklace. She places it against her throat, eyes locked on mine the whole time.
No mirror. No hesitation. Like the war between us never happened.
This place was our secret once. Now it’s a battlefield. And I’m not sure who’s winning anymore.
She’s a vision of sin in green and diamonds, standing in the middle of my bedroom like she owns the fucking air.
My air. The lingerie fits like it was sewn onto her skin—because it was.
I had it made for her, down to the last damn garter clip.
Not just to wear. To ruin. To tear off her while she begs.
While she moans my name like a curse and a prayer.
But instead, she stands there with her chin tipped up like she’s toying with a lesser man. One heel cocked. The emerald choker sitting at her throat like it always belonged there.
I cross my arms. “You like playing with fire, darling?”
She smirks, slow and smug. “Who said I was playing?”
Her voice is all smoke and sharpened edges. And I should walk away. I should let her simmer in whatever game she’s weaving. But I don’t. I take a step closer, then another.
“Tell me why you came back.”
That smile falters. Brief. A crack in the mirror.
“I already told you,” she says, feigning lightness. “Your father’s gala. The charity events. Holiday cheer and musical —”
“Bullshit.”
She blinks. Her gaze hardens. “Excuse me?”
I take a step toward her. Then another. She doesn’t back away—not yet—but her spine straightens, chin tipped high like she’s bracing for impact.
“You came back to haunt my fucking life and expect me to believe it’s for some gala?” I murmur. “You were never a good liar, mo rún.1”
She flinches at the Irish. Just slightly.
But I see it. The way her breath hitches.
The way her fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to reach for something—me, maybe, or the past, or the part of her that still melts when I speak her mother tongue.
Another step. I’ve got her pinned between me and the dresser now.
Polished mahogany at her back. My hands braced on either side of her hips.
She’s in nothing but lingerie and the O’Dwyer emeralds.
Silk and sin and secrets, every inch of her fucking dangerous.
“Why are you really here?” I ask, low. My voice drops to that place I know she can’t fight.
Her lashes flutter. “I told you—” I cut her off by leaning in, grazing the tip of my nose down the curve of her neck. She smells like snow and seduction. I press my lips just beneath her ear, voice like a curse and a prayer.
“Tá tú chomh álainn gur mhaith liom mo dhóchas a chailleadh ionat.”2
Her breath catches sharp. I trail my mouth lower, across her throat, tasting skin I used to worship in the dark. Her pulse flutters beneath my tongue.
“Stop it,” she whispers, but there’s no weight behind the words.
“You don’t want me to stop.”
I look down. My voice turns rough. “You came back. You’re wearing my family’s jewels. Standing in my house, in my fucking lingerie, in the middle of a storm—and you want me to believe this is about a party?”
Her silence tells me everything I need to know. I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. My eyes drop to her lips. Her body trembles like she’s caught between fight and surrender. I know which one I want. But first—I want the truth.
Her gaze flares. Her voice drops like a goddamn guillotine. “I’ll leave then.” She brushes past again—faster this time. Intent sharp. “I’ll buy my own fucking ticket. I don’t need your jet or your goddamn protection.”
I block the door. "Siobhán," I warn, low and guttural.
She spins, fury glittering like frost in those green eyes. “You don’t get to keep me here, Cillian.”
"You’re not a hostage," I snap. “You’re mine.”
She laughs, bitter and wild. “No, I was your mistake. Remember? I was the one you buried, not the one you chose.”
“Don’t,” I growl. “Don’t twist this.”
She steps in close, that sexy, infuriating kind of angry—like when she made me kneel, made me beg. “What, afraid I’ll say something true?”
I snap. My mouth crashes to hers like a fucking avalanche, all teeth and heat and vengeance.
Her nails dig into my shirt as I spin her, pin her against the wall—then lift her onto the dresser like she weighs nothing.
She moans into my mouth, breath hitching as I drag my hand up the curve of her thigh.
"Tell me why you’re really here," I snarl between kisses, "before I ruin you for every man who ever looks at you again."
Her lips curl. “Maybe that’s what I want.”
I still. Her voice is silk-wrapped steel, that soft command slipping under my skin like a blade.
Her gaze pins me, defiant and daring. She’s trying to flip the script.
I turn us both and lay her out on the bed.
I see it the moment she arches her back, her wrists tugging from beneath mine.
She’s testing the weight of my grip, shifting her hips until I lose balance, just enough for her to roll me onto my back.
She straddles me like a queen ascending her throne.
“You forget,” she whispers, leaning down so her breath ghosts over my lips, “I’ve had five years to imagine this moment.
I know exactly what I want.” Her hand drags down my chest. Fingertips slow.
Teasing. I let her. For a moment. She leans closer, her mouth at my ear now. “And I want you on your knees for me.”
I laugh. Quiet. Dangerous. It makes her falter—but only for a heartbeat.
She kisses down my throat, slow and calculated, trailing her tongue over every spot she knows will make me curse.
Her hands slip beneath my shirt, nails dragging.
She’s beautiful like this—wild and wicked and so sure she’s in control.
Her hips roll once. Twice. A groan slips from my lips.
“See?” she murmurs, voice thick and breathy. “You want to obey.”
And that’s when I move. Fast. I grab her wrists, flip her back beneath me before she can blink. She gasps—shocked, breathless, aroused.
“You want to play duchess?” I growl into her ear, pinning her wrists above her head. “Then learn the fucking rules.”
Her thighs tighten around me. She’s panting now, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide. I kiss her once—hard—then drag my mouth down her throat, over her collarbone, until she’s trembling beneath me again. I release her wrists. She doesn’t move.
My mouth hovers just above hers. “You don’t get to command me, Siobhán.”
“Why not?” she whispers, desperate now. “You said you wanted the truth. You want this. You want me.”
I lower my mouth to hers—barely touching. “I do.”
Then I pull away. Completely. Her eyes fly open. Confused. Wanting. I stand, adjust my shirt, and rake a hand through my hair as I fight every fucking urge in my body not to crawl back into that bed and ruin her.
“You don’t get to crawl into my house, in my fucking jewels, try to fuck the power back, and pretend that’s your apology.”
Her breath shudders. She says nothing. I step toward the door.
“You want control? Then give me the truth. Or next time I pin you down…” I pause, my voice low, dangerous, certain— “I won’t let you up.”
Then I walk out, leaving her dripping and desperate in my bed. I shut the door behind me and turn the lock before I can change my mind. Click.
Her fists hit it a second later. “Cillian!”
I press my back to the wood and close my eyes. Her voice is ragged, fury laced with want, and it nearly undoes me. Always does. She knows that. She uses that.
“Open the fucking door!”
I don’t move. She bangs again. Louder. I stare down at my hands—still trembling. Still aching with the ghost of her skin. The silk of her. The feel of her hips grinding against mine like she could ride me back into submission.
Goddamn her. I let it go too far. I always fucking do. Always with her. Siobhán Kelleher is the only woman who’s ever made me forget who I am. Who I’m supposed to be. The only woman who can walk back into my world wearing my mother’s necklace and make me forget every rule I’ve ever lived by.
I inhale deep. Slow. I need the oxygen like penance.
She screams something on the other side of the door.
I don’t catch it. Don’t need to. She’ll try to hurt me next.
With words. With silence. With whatever weapon she thinks will get under my skin.
But I’m already bleeding. And I need to get my shit together before I tear her apart and call it love.
So I walk away. One step. Then another. Each one heavier than the last. I ignore the pounding. Ignore the way my own name sounds like sin when she’s the one shouting it. Because if I go back in that room— I won’t leave again. Not until I’ve ruined us both.
1. My secret
2. You’re so beautiful I’d gladly lose all hope inside you.