25. Elena
Elena
The knock isn’t cautious. It’s the kind of knock that assumes I’m going to answer because of course I am. Because he doesn’t knock unless he already knows how things end.
I’m halfway across the room before I even register that I’ve moved. Irritating, considering I don’t do that for anyone, and certainly not without thinking first.
I open the door. Cormac, exactly as he always is. Composed, contained, every edge of him so sharply defined it borders on unnatural, coat still on, expression set into something that isn’t neutral and definitely isn’t relaxed.
Something’s wrong. I feel it immediately, the way you feel pressure drop before a storm breaks.
“You didn’t call,” I say, because that’s easier than asking the question already sitting in his posture.
“No.” He steps past me without waiting for permission, like the apartment still answers to him even when he’s not living in it anymore. I close the door behind him more out of habit than agreement.
The room shrinks the second he’s inside it. It always does, like the walls adjust around him without bothering to ask me first.
“What is it?” I ask, turning to face him, already bracing for something I can’t quite name yet. “Something’s happened.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, which is never a good sign. Instead, he takes in the room first, like he’s running a silent checklist before allowing himself to speak. The chair, the lamp, the layout, me.
Always me.
Then his gaze settles properly. “I had a conversation this morning,” he says.
My stomach tightens before my brain catches up. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s relevant.”
“Then skip the buildup.”
A beat passes. “Liam’s in Dublin.”
The words land cleanly. Too cleanly. For a second, I don’t process them. They just hang there between us, detached from anything real, like he’s said something in a language I should understand but suddenly don’t.
“What?” I finally blurt.
“He’s back from London,” Cormac continues. “There’s a possibility he’s returning here. Permanently.”
Returning. Here.
Dublin.
My brain catches up in pieces, each part slotting into place a second too late to soften the impact. “No,” I say automatically, because denial is faster than logic. “He… he hasn’t been back in years.”
“Three.”
“Exactly,” I snap, because that should mean something; it has to mean something. “Three years, Cormac. He doesn’t just decide to come back now.”
“He might.”
Might. Such a small word to carry that much weight.
I shake my head, pacing across the room before I can stop myself, because standing still suddenly feels impossible. “Why would he… what would even bring him back?”
“Work,” Cormac says. “Opportunity. Irrelevance of prior distance.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s sufficient.”
I stop moving. Because suddenly this isn’t abstract anymore, not a hypothetical I can ignore or push aside. This is real. This is proximity. This is Liam walking down a street I might also be on.
My gaze drops before I can stop it . Six months. There is no version of this where that goes unnoticed.
“He can’t see me like this,” I say, more to myself than to Cormac. “He just… he can’t.”
Cormac doesn’t respond.
I look up at him, sharper now. “Say something.”
“If he sees you,” he says, “there is no version of this that remains contained.”
Right. Yes. I already knew that. Hearing him say it just makes it official.
“He’ll find out,” I say, the words coming faster now, tripping over each other in a way I don’t like. “He’ll ask questions, he’ll… he won’t let it go, he never does, he’ll?—”
“He will not accept partial answers,” Cormac finishes.
“Exactly.”
Silence drops for a second, heavy and immediate. Then I laugh, because what else am I supposed to do with this news?
“Great,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “That’s great. So what’s the plan, exactly? I just avoid half the city for the next three months?”
“You stay where you are.”
I look at him. “I am where I am.”
“You stay in the program. Within the arrangement.”
“And that fixes it?”
“It limits his access.”
I let out a breath, sharp and unimpressed. “That’s not a solution, Cormac. That’s a delay.”
“It’s control.”
Of course it is. “You don’t know that’ll work.”
“I do.”
“How?” I throw my hands in the air.
“Because I will make sure of it.”
There it is. That certainty. The same one that’s been threading through everything since the beginning. The one that makes it very difficult to argue with him even when I really want to.
“You can’t control everything,” I say.
“I don’t need to control everything,” he replies calmly. “Only what’s relevant.”
“And I’m relevant.”
“Yes.”
I fold my arms because suddenly I don’t know what else to do with them. “I’m not something you manage.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer just enough to shift the air between us. “You’re not.”
“Then stop talking like I am.”
“I’m talking about the situation.”
“You’re talking about me like I don’t get a say in it.”
“You do,” he says. “You already used it.”
That lands. Because I know exactly what he means.
“By staying,” he continues, like he’s laying out something already decided. “By choosing this. By choosing the arrangement that protects you.”
“I chose the program,” I say, sharper now because I need that distinction to hold. “Not… this.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “Didn’t you?”
And that, annoyingly, lands. Because I don’t have a clean answer for it anymore. Because nothing about this is clean.
I look away for a second because I don’t want him reading that on my face. “You’re twisting it.”
“I’m clarifying it.”
“You’re making it sound like I don’t have a choice now.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t stay,” I push, because I need to hear it said out loud, need to know exactly where the line is, “if I don’t do exactly what you think is best… what then?”
He pauses.
“Then you accept the consequences of that decision.”
Which is such a precise, controlled way of saying don’t that I almost admire it. I hate that part of me is already recalculating around it, already shifting, already acknowledging that staying is safer, easier, smarter…
And I hate, more than anything, that underneath all of that, something else is happening, too.
Because he’s closer now. I didn’t notice when that happened. Or I did, and I didn’t stop it.
My breath catches slightly, and the room narrows to only us.
I look at him. Really look.
And I realize, with a clarity I don’t want, that what I’m reacting to right now isn’t just fear.
It’s him .
My pulse stutters. “Cormac…”
I don’t even know what I’m about to say. Don’t. Wait. This is a bad idea. Pick one.
But none of them come out, because he steps closer. Not abruptly, not aggressively, just enough to close the last of the distance between us. The room feels even smaller, warmer, like the air itself has changed.
His hand lifts. Slow enough that I see it coming, that I could move away if I wanted to. I don’t, not even a fraction. His fingers slide along the curve of my jaw, steadying my face like he’s done it a hundred times before when checking something, adjusting something.
Except this isn’t that.
This isn’t anything I can pretend is routine or necessary.
His thumb brushes just beneath my lip—the lightest contact, barely there—and it’s ridiculous how much that alone unravels something in me. How fast my body reacts like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
Months of it. All of it sitting just under the surface. It’s like inevitability has finally caught up with us. Like something that should have happened weeks ago, but now it’s making up for lost time.
For a split second, I freeze. Not because I don’t want this.
Because I do. Too much.
And then his lips collide with mine. Hard. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just this sharp, immediate rush of finally that burns straight through every logical thought I should be having.
His hand tightens at my jaw, angling my head, deepening the kiss like he’s done this before, like he already knows exactly how I’ll respond. I hate how right he is, how easily I open for him, how quickly everything else drops away.
He walks me back into the apartment’s narrow foyer, impact rattling through my hips where the concrete corner gouges into my dress.
His fingers tangle in my hair, rough with sweat, pulling my head back so his mouth can claim the tender skin of my throat.
He nuzzles the pulse beneath my ear, tongue grazing the hypersensitive flesh, and there’s no hesitation, only the fierce momentum of two bodies already collapsing into one another.
His breath tastes of crushed peppermint leaves and bitter citrus rind.
The sharp zing makes me tremble, and I let out a quiet moan, twisting my hands into his shirt until the seams protest. I yank it up over his shoulders, baring his chest to my hungry teeth.
I want to press my mouth into him, to leave proof he came here tonight.
He growls low in his throat and responds by pressing his mouth harder against mine.
Teeth, tongue, everything urgent and unguarded.
The thrum of his groan vibrates through my own chest. His thigh carves between mine, lifting me up so my maternity dress rides up my belly.
He strokes the curve of me through the fabric, his fingertips brushing my swollen navel, thumb mapping my hipbone.
The friction crackles like electricity. I arch against him, every nerve ending in my pelvis lighting up with shameful need.
He lifts me just enough to shift my weight, my feet skimming the floor. The world spins. Lampshade bouncing, throw pillows strewn across the couch, but I’m anchored to him, craving the delicious risk of being pinned.
When I come, I sob into the nape of his neck, an unsteady gasp of relief and apology all at once. His arms tighten before he sets me down gently. I don’t want gentle; I want to be dismantled, but he holds me upright. His forehead rests against mine, breath ragged like he’s sprinted a marathon.