Chapter 22 #2
The confession hung between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. Alexander—my most trusted person, my brother, the man who'd helped me out of trouble so many times—was in love with the enemy.
"How long?" My voice had gone dead calm, the way it did before I killed someone.
"She's been here several weeks. At first, she was just another asset to be managed.
But Ronan..." His jaw tightened, and I saw the man I'd known for over a decade warring with something I’d never witnessed in him.
Something I recognised in myself, as I was not long ago.
With my beloved Cressida. "She's not what I expected. Not what you’d expect. .."
"Several weeks?" Rage filled my chest still—I just couldn’t shake it. "You've had an O'Malley living under my roof for weeks and didn't think to mention it in your reports?"
"I know how this looks—"
"It looks like betrayal."
Alexander flinched as if I'd struck him, but he didn't back down. That, more than anything, told me how deep he'd fallen.
"She had nothing to do with what happened to Cressida," he said, his voice gaining strength.
"She was in Edinburgh when Connor took her, and before that in Paris for a long time.
Didn't even know about the kidnapping until after the fact, when she learned her father died.
Truth be told, her relationship with him was not the best."
"And you believe her?" The question dripped with contempt.
"I've spent weeks questioning her, Ronan, getting to know her. Weeks watching for tells, for inconsistencies, for any sign she's playing me. Then, things changed between us. I know what I’m doing. Yes, I believe her."
I studied his face, searching for signs of manipulation or self-deception. But all I saw was a man torn between loyalty and love—a position I understood with visceral clarity because I'd been there myself.
"Where is she now?"
"In the gardens."
My blood turned to liquid nitrogen. "Alone?"
"With Cressida."
The world tilted. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the roar of panic flooding my system. An O'Malley. Alone with the woman who owned my soul.
I was moving before Alexander could react, crossing to the window in three strides. There, in the rose garden where Cressida and I had shared our first kiss, where she'd whispered her feelings to me, I found them.
Two women sitting on the stone bench beneath the climbing roses. One with honey-dark hair that caught the light like spun gold—my Cressida, my heart walking around outside my body. The other with the distinctive auburn curls that marked her as an O’Malley.
They weren't talking. They were sitting in the awkward silence of strangers thrust together by circumstance, Cressida's body language polite but wary. But as I watched, Aoife said something that made Cressida turn, really look at her.
"She looks exactly like him," I said, my voice hollow. The resemblance was unmistakable.
"She's nothing like him." Alexander joined me at the window, and I heard the desperation he was trying to hide.
"Ronan, nobody knows this, but she's spent the last year anonymously helping the families Connor destroyed to get back on their feet.
She keeps this under wraps, but you know me. I find stuff."
"Pretty story." I continued watching the women.
"Look at her." His voice cracked slightly. "Really look at her. You don’t have to believe me, but you also know about me and lying. And where my loyalty has lain all these years. I’ve never once failed you. Not ever, not now."
I forced myself to study Aoife O'Malley objectively, past the name that made my trigger finger itch.
She was smaller than I'd expected, more fragile.
Her smile lit up her face, even while I could only see her profile.
Her stance was relaxed, unassuming. Friendly…
genuine even. Cressida burst out laughing at something the woman said, and my chest tightened.
But appearances were deceiving.
"She could be lying still," I insisted, but my tone was half-hearted. Even I could make that out.
"Or perhaps she’s just a different human. Her own person, not her name."
I turned to face my oldest friend, the man who'd stood beside me through wars both literal and metaphorical. "You're asking me to trust an O'Malley. In my house. With my woman."
"I'm asking you to trust me."
The simple words hit harder than accusations or arguments. Alexander's loyalty had been absolute since the start. He'd followed me into hellfire, had my back too many times, had never questioned my judgement even when it led into darkness.
And now he was asking me to believe in something that went against every survival instinct I possessed.
"She could be playing you," I said, testing the waters. "This could all be an elaborate setup."
"It could be, although with every fibre of my being, I don’t believe so." He met my eyes directly, unflinching. "But if it is like that, then I'm already dead anyway. Because I won't give her up, Ronan. I can't."
The raw honesty in his voice was a mirror I didn't want to look into. Again, I recognised that desperation, that willingness to burn the world down for someone else's happiness. It was what I felt every time I looked at Cressida.
"You love her more than your own existence? More than our friendship?" The question tasted like ashes.
"I won't choose between you." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I can't choose. So either you find a way to accept this, or..."
"Or what?"
"Or I lose the two most important things in my life."
The admission hung between us, brutal in its simplicity. I'd seen Alexander face down armed men without flinching, had watched him make life-and-death decisions with cold precision. But now he looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if I'd push him or pull him back.
Through the window, I watched Cressida say something that had Aoife grinning from ear to ear.
Cressida found it so difficult to trust, yet I couldn’t believe how comfortable she looked.
I couldn’t say they were friends yet as the guards weren’t completely down, but something was definitely happening.
It felt like magic to see her so open like this.
"Tell me about her," I said finally, turning away from the window.
Relief flickered across Alexander's features, quickly suppressed. "Twenty-six years old. Studied literature … creative soul deep down, but she’s also good at business. Doesn’t have many friends as she trusts no-one except a handful of people.
She’s always been alone, never close to her surviving brother.
For years, she tried to distance herself from the family business, but her father had other ideas and insisted she get prepared. "
"Literature?" I raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly the O'Malley way."
"No. She wanted nothing to do with Connor's operations. From what I've gathered, they barely spoke after she turned eighteen, except when he needed her to take over."
"Convenient story."
"It checks out. I've verified her university records, social profiles, various addresses. She was exactly where she says she was when everything went down."
"So what brought her back?"
Alexander's expression darkened. "The same thing that brings anyone back to face their demons.
Guilt and family obligation. When Connor died and the estate burned, she inherited what was left—which included very few assets, some significant debts, and a handful of survivors who had nowhere else to go. "
"And she decided to play saviour?"
"She decided to try to make things right.
" His voice carried a conviction that made my chest tighten.
"There were families caught in the crossfire, Ronan.
People who worked legitimate jobs for the O'Malley’s and lost everything when we dismantled the operation.
They were a small family but a number of elderly relatives depended on Connor's support.
She's been using her own money and what little she had left after the assets were sold and debts repaid, to help them. "
I studied his face. His tone held no hesitation. Alexander had always been a good judge of character—it was one of the reasons why he'd always found a way in our world.
"What else are you not telling me?"
"There is something else I wanted to speak to you about. I’ve asked Coyne to let me do it first. But let’s discuss this later. You have my word that it’s being taken care of.”
I let out a deep breath. "I don’t like this."
"I promise I’m handling it." Alexander's jaw tightened. "It’s … personal."
I nodded, even though a storm raged inside. Through the window, I watched Cressida gesture toward a rose bush, no doubt telling Aoife about her most cherished garden.
But the fact that she was being kind and yes, bonding someone who was supposed to be an enemy gave me pause while filling me with pride. If Cressida was letting go and turning a new page, then perhaps I should do the same.
"I need to meet her properly," I said finally. "Tonight. Dinner."
"And then?" I turned to face him fully. "Then I decide whether she lives or dies."
My brutal honesty made Alexander go pale, but he nodded. He knew the stakes as well as I did. Trust was earned in blood and lost with a single mistake.
"Ronan..." His voice was rough with emotion he rarely showed. "Thank you. For hearing me out."
"Don't thank me yet." I moved to the sidebar, pouring fresh drinks for both of us. "I'm doing this for you, not for her. But if she's playing you, if this is some elaborate revenge scheme, if she so much as looks at Cressida wrong..."
"I know."
"Good." I checked my watch—still several hours before dinner. Time enough to handle another matter that had been burning in my chest for months. "I have something I need to take care of before tonight."
Alexander's eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't ask. We'd known each other too long for unnecessary questions.
"Just... try to keep an open mind tonight," he said as I headed for the door.
"I'll try. But Alex?" I paused in the doorway, eyes hooked to his and letting him see I meant what I said. "If she hurts Cressida—if she even makes her uncomfortable—all bets are off."
"Understood."
I left him there, my mind already shifting to more pressing concerns. Tonight would bring its own reckoning, but first things first.
I’d been waiting for the right moment. The right place. The right woman.
I found my phone and dialled a number I'd memorized weeks ago, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged animal.
"It's Flanagan," I said when the call connected. "Is everything ready?"
"Yes, sir. Exactly as you specified."
"Good. I'll need it in two hours."
"Everything will be perfect, Mr. Flanagan."
Perfect. It had to be perfect. Because tonight, in the gardens where we'd slowly discovered each other, where roses bloomed despite the blood that had been spilled on this ground, I was going to ask Cressida Ashford to marry me.
And pray that the ring I'd carried like a talisman for three months would finally find its home where it belonged—on the finger of the woman who'd saved my soul.