Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
FOUR MONTHS LATER…
ALEXANDER MOORE
Four months had passed since the big incident with Beatrice, and I still couldn't let Aoife out of my sight. The doctors had cleared her weeks ago, but the memory of her blood on my hands remained carved into my soul.
"Alexander," Aoife's voice carried a stark warning as she emerged from our bedroom, green eyes flashing, "if you follow me to the loo one more time, I'm castrating you with a butter knife."
I glanced up from my perusal of the wedding seating charts, pen frozen mid-stroke. "I wasn't following you. I was checking—"
"The security perimeter includes the ladies' toilet now?" She planted herself before me, hands on hips, auburn hair catching the afternoon light. Her jaw was set in that stubborn line I knew meant trouble.
"Threats can come from anywhere—"
"The only threat in that bathroom was me drowning in exasperation." She stepped closer, jasmine and steel flooding my senses. Her fingers drummed against her thighs—a tell that meant she was fighting for patience. "I love that you want to protect me, but I'm going mad. I’m not helpless."
I stood, reaching for her instinctively. She didn't pull away when my hands found her waist. "You were unconscious for three days. You nearly…" I let my voice trail away, unable to say the word.
Her expression softened, palms pressing against my chest where my heart hammered. "But I didn't die. I'm here." She tilted her head, studying my face. "Driving you to an early grave with my existence, it seems."
“It’s not that,” I insisted.
“It’s precisely that. You can’t let go. You can’t understand that I’m perfectly fine!”
He frowned. “I do know that.”
"Then prove it. Let me help with wedding preparations. Let me go to the village." Her chin lifted in challenge. "Let me exist without a six-foot-three shadow."
My jaw clenched at the thought. "The village isn't secure. Too many variables—"
"What variables? Militant florists with pruning shears? Beatrice is dead." She stepped back, crossing her arms, eyebrow arched in disbelief. "This is ridiculous."
"Watch me try."
She muttered something in Irish, shaking her head. I caught enough to know she'd compared my intelligence unfavourably to livestock.
"Right." She threw her hands up in mock surrender. "Since I'm under house arrest, what thrilling activity have you planned? Counting imaginary sheep? Monitoring my pulse?"
Despite myself, I grinned. When she was angry like this—cheeks flushed, eyes sparking—she was magnificent. "Actually, I do have something planned."
Suspicion replaced irritation, her head tilting slightly. "What sort of something?"
"A surprise. Get your jacket."
An hour later, I led her down the familiar path, her hand warm in mine. She'd stopped asking questions, but I felt her curious glances as we approached where the hunting lodge had once stood.
"Our house," she murmured, stopping short when the new structure came into view. Her free hand pressed to her chest. "I still can't believe Ronan did this."
"Guilt's powerful motivation." I produced the key, noting how her fingers tightened around mine. "He blames himself for Beatrice."
Inside, her sharp intake of breath told me she'd spotted my handiwork.
Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating vases of white roses in every corner.
In the centre, a massive inflatable mattress covered with soft blankets and scattered rose petals.
A picnic basket sat beside champagne chilling in ice.
"Alexander." She turned to me, wonder replacing wariness in those emerald eyes, one hand covering her mouth. "This is..."
Before I could explain, she rushed to the picnic basket like a child on Christmas morning, lifting the wicker lid with eager hands.
"Oh my God." Her voice went soft, reverent.
"Smoked salmon, those tiny quiches I love, chocolate-covered strawberries.
.." She looked up at me, tears gathering. "You remembered everything."
"I know we haven't furnished it properly. And I know I've been overprotective." I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly nervous. "I thought we could christen our new home. Just us."
She launched herself into my arms with such force I staggered backward, her lips finding mine in a kiss that tasted of both joy and tears. When we broke apart, both breathless, she rested her forehead against mine, fingers curled in my shirt.
"I love you. Even when you're being a complete arse."
"I love you, too." I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "More than my own life."
We settled on the makeshift bed, her body curving against mine. I popped the champagne cork, the sound echoing cheerfully. The Dom Pérignon fizzed as I poured it into crystal flutes.
"To new beginnings," I said, raising my glass.
"To surviving each other..." Her smile was wicked as she clinked her glass against mine.
The champagne was crisp and perfect. Aoife immediately reached for a salmon canapé, closing her eyes in bliss as she tasted it, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"This is wonderful." She curled against me, then glanced down at her clothes with calculating eyes. "Though I feel overdressed for a picnic."
I nearly choked on my champagne. "Aoife..."
"What?" She traced patterns on my chest, touch deliberately innocent, green eyes dancing with mischief. "These clothes are a bit formal for lounging, don't you think?"
"You're still recovering." I caught her wandering hand before it could drift lower. "The doctors said—"
"The doctors cleared me weeks ago." She shifted, suddenly straddling my lap, pupils dilating as she settled over me. "I'm perfectly healthy. In every sense."
My cock hardened instantly at her warm weight. "You need rest—"
"I need you." Her lips brushed my ear, breath warm against my skin, making me shiver. "Four months since you've properly touched me. I'm going crazy with wanting."
The memory of her pale and broken in that hospital bed kept my hands neutral on her waist, even as my body betrayed me.
"We can't risk—"
"Risk what?" Frustration flashed across her face, her hands fisting in my shirt. "I'm not spun glass. I won't shatter if you kiss me properly."
"You nearly died because I couldn't protect you."
“Stop that.” She studied my face, those perceptive eyes seeing too much. Her expression softened with understanding. "You're not protecting me from the world anymore. You're protecting me from yourself."
The accuracy hit like a blade between my ribs.
"I should explore the house." She climbed off my lap with studied casualness, but I caught the hurt that flickered for a split second across her features. "See what the architects came up with."
I watched her go, hands clenching into fists as I fought the urge to follow.
Minutes crawled by. The silence stretched until panic clawed at my chest.
"Aoife?" I called, already on my feet. "Everything all right?"
"In here." Her voice from the master bedroom held a note that made my mouth go dry.
I found her standing in afternoon sunlight streaming through windows. She'd removed every stitch of clothing, and the sight of her—all curves and smooth skin and confident sensuality—hit like a physical blow.
"Aoife."
"You won't come to me." She walked toward me with predatory grace, hips swaying, breasts softly bouncing. "So I'm coming to you."
"We can't—"
"We can." Her naked body pressed against my clothed one, heat searing through fabric. She looked up at me through her lashes, lips parted. "We will. Because I'm tired of being treated like an invalid, and you're tired of pretending you don't want me."
Her hands worked my shirt buttons with urgent fingers. As the fabric fell away, her fingers brushed against something hard at my waistband—the compact pistol I kept concealed.
She paused, meeting my eyes with understanding rather than surprise. "Even now?"
"Always." I removed the weapon, setting it within arm's reach on the floor. "I can't turn it off, Aoife. The need to protect you."
Her expression softened, one hand cupping my cheek. "I know. It's part of who you are. But God… months of sleeping beside you, wanting you, while you maintain this ridiculous distance."
"I'm trying to protect—"
"Bollocks." The last button gave way, shirt hitting the floor. Her eyes raked possessively, hungrily, over my chest. "You're punishing yourself, and me. I won't let you. Not anymore."
She claimed my mouth with fierce hunger. Despite every rational thought, my body responded instantly, hands fisting in her hair as I kissed her back with months of pent-up need.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, she smiled with triumph. "There's my Alexander."
"I could never forget you." My hands skimmed her sides, reacquainting myself with her warmth.
"No looking back. No second thoughts." Her fingers worked at my belt with determined efficiency.
Belt, trousers, underwear hit the floor. Everything. Standing naked with her—in more ways than one—in golden sunlight was better than anything in the world, real or imagined.
"Beautiful." My fingers trailed her collarbone, feeling her pulse race beneath my touch. "So fucking beautiful."
She shivered but held my gaze steady, chin tilted in challenge. "Then show me. Stop treating me like I'm breakable."
My control shattered. I lifted her easily, her legs wrapping my waist as I carried her back to the room where we had our makeshift bed and picnic site, all in one. The rose petals scattered as I laid her down, following to cover her body with mine.
"Are you certain?" I searched her face, thumb tracing her lower lip.
"I've never been more certain of anything." Her hands framed my face, eyes fierce with want. "I need this. I need you."
I kissed her like I was drowning. Her response was immediate, back arching as my hands explored territory I'd missed desperately. She tasted like everything I ever wanted. Like home.