Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Red Lies, Red Love
Siobhán
Iwake tangled in sheets that still smell like him. Cillian’s arm is slung heavy over my hips, warm and possessive even in sleep. His chest rises and falls behind me in slow, steady breaths, the rhythm of a man unbothered by the world. Must be nice.
I moan softly as I stretch, muscles deliciously sore from the night before—though not sore enough. He never let me finish. Hours later and my body is still humming with frustrated heat, like I’m strung too tight and one wrong move might send me shattering.
God, that man is cruel.
I tried touching myself after he left—slipped my fingers between my thighs and thought about his voice, his mouth, the way his hands had gripped my hips and denied me over and over again—but it was useless.
My body knows the difference. It doesn’t want my hands. It wants his. And now I’m left aching.
My phone buzzes from the nearby chair. Once.
Twice. Three times. Persistent. I groan and peel myself away from him slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might wake the beast. He shifts but doesn’t stir.
Just grumbles something low and unintelligible in his sleep and tightens his hold on the pillow I’ve abandoned.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom, still wearing nothing but one of his black t-shirts and the ghost of his mouth between my thighs.
The hardwood is cold under my feet as I cross the living room.
The morning light hasn’t quite reached the windows yet—just enough grey bleeding in to see shadows, shapes.
Evidence of last night. The wine glasses.
The sheet music I never finished. My shoes, carelessly discarded.
The phone buzzes again. I snatch it up and answer without looking. “Do you have it?”
No hello. No warning. Just that clipped, cold voice I’ve come to loathe.
I suck in a slow breath and whisper, “I told you—I need the ledger. That was the deal.”
“And now the deal has changed.”
My stomach turns.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re in his bed, duchess. You want the ledger, you get me his passcode. The one for his secure vault. You know the one.”
My throat tightens. “No.”
“You want to know who killed your mother or not?” Silence. “I’m not asking you to slit his throat,” the voice sneers. “Just watch. Listen. Get the code. Or walk away and keep living in the dark. Meet me in the music room tomorrow, I’ll text you a time.”
My grip tightens on the phone. My nails dig half-moons into my palm. “Fine,” I whisper. “But you don’t contact me again until you have it. Understood?”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone.
And for the first time in a long, long time—I feel like I might throw up.
Because I said yes. Because I’m still going to do it.
And because the man sleeping in that bed behind me might be the only one who’s ever truly seen me—and I’m about to betray him anyway.
The silence in the room feels alive, pressing against my skin until I can’t breathe. The phone slides from my hand and hits the counter with a dull thud. I stare at it like it might bite me. His passcode. I already know it. I’ve always known it.
My birthday. The one date he should’ve forgotten years ago. The one he still uses to lock his empire. The realization claws through my chest. Oh god.
I stumble toward the kitchen, desperate for something to do, something to ground me.
Tea. I’ll make tea. I always make tea. My hands shake as I fill the kettle, water splashing onto the counter, but I don’t stop.
I can’t. I open cupboards until I find the tin. Jasmine and rose. My mother’s favorite.
By the time the kettle starts to sing, my breath is ragged, my chest tight.
I pour, spill, curse, grab a towel, drop it.
The mug clinks against the marble as I set it down too hard.
I slice bread, crack eggs, move through the motions like a woman possessed.
The smell of butter fills the air, heavy and sweet, but it turns my stomach.
I can’t eat. I can’t even stand still. My vision blurs as I press both palms to the counter, bowing my head. The tears come without warning—hot, choking, furious. They splatter against the marble, dark spots blooming like ink stains.
What the hell am I doing?
He’s a monster. He’s my monster. And I’m about to become worse.
Because I know his code. Because I’ve always known it.
Because I’m still going to use it. I drop to my knees on the cold tile, clutching the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
My stomach twists, acid crawling up my throat. I think I might be sick.
The kettle clicks off. Steam drifts into the air, curling like a ghost. I wipe my face, stand, grab the mug, and take a shaking sip.
It burns all the way down, scalding and bitter.
In the next room, I hear the bed creak. Cillian shifting.
Maybe waking. Maybe about to find me like this—barefoot, broken, and already halfway to betraying him.
I breathe once. Twice. Then wipe my eyes. By the time he walks in, the tears are gone. Only the lie remains.
Cillian doesn’t say anything at first—he just crosses the kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times before, bare-chested and sleepy-eyed, hair a mess from the pillow.
His presence fills the space effortlessly.
Warm. Unbothered. Like he didn’t just leave me aching and alone in his bed for two hours last night, curled around his pillow, begging for something I wouldn’t let myself take.
“Smells good,” he murmurs, brushing a hand down my spine as he passes. The touch is light. Familiar. A casual kind of intimacy that hurts more than cruelty ever could.
“I made breakfast,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “And tea.”
“Proper Irish wife material, so you are.”
I force a smile and hand him a mug. “Shut up and drink, Cill.”
He grins against the rim, sips, then sets the mug down to steal a bite of toast off my plate like it belongs to him. Maybe it does. I busy myself with the eggs on the pan, because if I look at him too long, I’ll break again.
He lingers behind me, arms circling my waist, mouth brushing the curve of my neck. “You okay, dove?”
I nod. Lie. He kisses my cheek. I don’t deserve it.
We eat quietly, the kind of silence that would feel comfortable in any other life. I make more tea. He talks about the morning—meetings at the docks, something with the Russians that makes my stomach tighten. I nod along, half-hearing, half-drowning.
Because I know the code. I’ve always known it. My birthday. His lock code. My name inked in blood. And I’m going to steal it.
We get dressed slowly, like neither of us is in a rush to leave the bubble. He buttons my coat. I fix his collar. Our hands touch too long. Our eyes hold too much. He leans in, brushes a kiss to my mouth like a promise.
“Be good while I’m gone,” he whispers. “And maybe I’ll come back and finish what I started.”
I swallow. Nod. Lie, lie, lie.
“Don’t get shot.”
He smirks. “Smile pretty for the cameras and don’t bite their heads off..”
“No promises.”
He taps my nose, then turns for the door. I watch him go, heart heavy. Spine splintering. Because in less than an hour, I’ll be sitting across from my contact with the code already memorized. And if I hand it over… I lose him.
The manor is too quiet. I sit at the piano in the music room, fingers still aching from last night. From him. From everything I swore I’d never want again.
The room smells like old books and varnished wood. Dust motes dance through the beam of sunlight slicing across the keys. I should play something. I should fill the silence. But I’m too aware of the weight in my chest. The clock ticking toward something I can’t undo.
And then— click. A soft groan of old mechanics as part of the wall shifts. A door I didn’t know was there creaks open from behind a tall shelf. I don’t move. Not at first.
Then he steps through. Tall. Hooded. Coat too plain to be unnoticeable. Gloves. Eyes I can’t see beneath the shadow of the hood.
“You’re late,” I say, even though I’m the one who waited.
“What’s the code?”
No small talk. No softness. No threat, either—just cold purpose. His voice is sharp, but not familiar. Not someone I’ve met before. I hesitate. My stomach turns. My hands grip the edge of the bench.
“I need more answers,” I say.
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he pulls something from inside his coat.
A red ledger. The ledger. The cover is cracked, the corners worn.
He opens it without a word, flipping pages with surgical precision until he finds the one he wants.
And then he lays it open in front of me.
A photograph. Faded. Taped to the page. My mother.
Smiling in a summer dress. Next to her name. And a number. One I don’t recognize. A code of some kind. Below that—Cillian’s father’s name. And one word in red: “Cillian.”
The man speaks again, soft this time. “There’s more. Much more. And it all goes back to your precious Dublin Devil.”
My heart stutters.
“What is this?” My voice barely works. “What does he have to do with her?”
“He was there.” He taps the photograph.
I feel like I’m underwater. Like the air in the room has curdled.
“I want the whole ledger,” I whisper.
He holds out his hand. “Then give me the code.”
I stare at his gloved palm. My mother’s name. Cillian’s name. And my own, waiting to be written in red.
I don’t remember walking back to the stables. Only the frost crunching under my boots. The way my legs shake even though I haven’t cried yet. I should be running. Or screaming. Or reading that damn ledger to justify the poison in my veins. But instead—I crawl into his bed.
He startles when the door creaks open, already sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, hand halfway to the drawer where he keeps the gun.