Chapter 33
TIERNEY
I haven’t left the room for twelve hours, and the longer I stay here, the harder it is to make myself move.
The air is stale, my stomach twists with hunger, and the heavier painkillers are finally wearing off, leaving me too aware of the nightmare.
Everything I need to survive is within reach.
There’s bottled water on the bedside table.
I don’t remember arranging my pills in a neat row, but they’re there.
And a new phone, screen-side down. I know there aren’t any messages waiting because I haven’t given my number out to anyone, not even to Connor.
At one point I thought about reaching out to Damien, but every time I typed his number, I deleted it again before I could hit call.
The sickening truth is that walking away from him didn’t break me. Not like this has.
Instead, I drifted in and out of sleep and let whatever was on the TV play, taking none of it in. Now I’m waiting for room service to bring a chicken burger and fries, even though my stomach aches and the thought of eating feels like an effort I don’t have.
Even I know the first rule of recovery is to eat for strength and then figure out where I go from here. Because I sure as hell won’t go home to my da.
I glance at my wedding finger and take a deep breath, hating the absence of his ring, the way my hand looks bare without it.
Just as it should be.
I’m not Mrs Viacava anymore, and maybe I’m not a Blake either.
I close my eyes for a moment, but all it does is drag me into the relentless memories of Bronx’s cocky grin, the way his bare chest looked when it was slick with water, the small details my body remembers even when my head is trying to forget.
I drag a hand over my face and let out a low groan, forcing the image away.
“Pull yourself together,” I mutter. “That version of him isn’t real.”
There’s a loud knock on the door.
I weigh up whether I still want the food. But I need energy so I can get the hell out of New York.
I slide my legs off the bed, push myself upright, pull the robe tighter and knot the belt, covering bare skin underneath. The last thing I wanted to do after leaving the hospital was shop for clothes.
This is as good as it gets.
I came to the States with nothing, and I’ll leave the same way.
By the time I reach the door, I’ve already passed the mirror and ignored my unwashed hair and ghostly pale skin.
Truth is, I don’t care anymore. I gave my heart to a liar and expected him to protect it. That’s on me. Now, I’ve nothing else to lose. And I’ll never make that mistake with anyone else.
The door seems heavier than it should be when I open it halfway; the stretch along my side forcing a quick breath out of me before I step back to let the trolley in.
“Tierney.”
My breath catches hard enough to hurt.
Bronx is standing at my door in pressed dress trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show the strength in his forearms. His presence hits me all at once, dragging heat low and unwelcome through my chest.
“Go away,” I say, already moving to shut the door.
He shoves the trolley forward, blocking the door before it can close.
“Don’t you want your dinner, princess?”
“Not anymore.” I fold my arms and immediately regret it; the pull along my side makes me wince. “If you put another foot inside my room, I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead,” he says, pushing further into the room. “There’s no one else on this floor. No one gets in or out without my say.”
Bronx walks further into the room with that smooth confidence of his.
“What about my permission?” I follow him, keeping a distance I don’t trust myself to close. “I don’t want you anywhere near me. Get the fuck out, Bronx, and go play husband with someone else.”
“I’m right where I need to be,” he replies, adjusting the position of the tray on the table. “And we both know the playing stopped when feelings got involved.”
My pulse kicks harder at that and almost laugh at myself for giving him the once over, even now.
“The only feelings I have are pure hatred and irritation,” I snap. “And you’re the cause of it.”
His gaze flicks to me, and for a second, I fall into how it used to be. How having his attention lit me up inside, even when I tried to deny it.
“Understood, princess,” he says, his tone even, certain in a way that only makes my blood scorch. “You can still pretend to hate me while you eat.”
The nerve of him.
The absolute nerve.
“I don’t think you realise how deep this hate runs, Bronx.” I reach out and grab the silver knife from inside the linen napkin, my fingers tightening around the handle as I hold it out, the steel glinting in the light between us.
“We’re not on good terms now, or ever,” I warn, my voice strained from tiredness, “and I swear to God I’ll use this.”
After a beat, he looks at the knife, then back at me, and just to piss me off even more, he smiles.
“Come on, you didn’t take fifteen stitches saving my life just to give me matching ones, did you?”
“Fuck you!”
I dart around the trolley, fast enough that the walls blur and my wound throbs. However, the stupid knife gets nowhere near him.
His hand closes around my wrist, stopping the movement, just enough to redirect it away. I lash out anyway, the other hand coming up to hit him square in the chest.
“Of course you’d come here when I’m off my game,” I hiss. “This is a prime Viacava move. Selfish and always needing to win.”
He catches my other wrist before I can swing again, his grip still careful, as if he’s more concerned about hurting me than anything I could do to him.
“You’ll tear your stitches, princess,” he says, and there’s a warning in it now. “Sit down.”
“Do not tell me what to do.”
I struggle against him anyway, pushing forward, trying to shove him back, using up the last reserves of energy I have left. And he takes it. There’s no fighting back this time.
Bronx doesn’t overpower me like I know he could. Nor does he throw me off and spout some bullshit about respect.
Instead, he guides me backward with my momentum until I’m sitting on the bed.
My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts; my mind caught between driving my fist into his jaw and putting as much distance between us as possible.
I should punch him.
But my body hesitates, remembering the strength of those hands on me for entirely different reasons.
He watches me through it, still holding my wrist.
“Take your fucking hands off me, Bronx.”
After a racing heartbeat, he lets go of one wrist, then the other.
Instead of stepping back, he lowers himself in front of me. My breath stutters as Bronx drops to one knee, his gaze never leaving mine.
The space between us feels too thin now. The air is hotter, and every breath I take is pulling him under my skin.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, because this makes little sense to me.
Bronx doesn’t kneel. He stays in control, always ahead, always untouchable.
“I’m sorry you heard what you heard,” he says, his voice steady in a way that only makes the chaos inside me spike higher. “There was no faking what happened between us, Tierney. You know that as much as I do. So go ahead, let it all out.”
I stare at him, my hands still half-curled from where they’d been caught in his grip, my pulse hammering hard enough to make the room tilt.
“Fight me if that’s what you need,” he continues, not looking away. “But don’t think I’m letting you go. Walking away from us isn’t happening.”
My throat tightens. And I hate that it does.
“You don’t get a choice anymore,” I tell him. “I had a reason to go along with our marriage in the beginning. Now there’s absolutely nothing for me to stay for.”
“I think there is.” His thumb presses into my pulse, feeling it, holding it there as if it belongs to him. “This doesn’t go to shit just because it got messy.”
“Oh, Bronx,” I let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t actually think I love you, do ya?”
For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes dark and intense.
“Well, I love you,” he says. “And I’m not losing you over something we can work out.”
Those three words tingle through me, settling where I don’t want to accept them. I steel my spine before my body has time to respond and roll my eyes at him.
“I always knew there was a reason you agreed to our marriage,” I shoot back. “I just didn’t think you’d be able to fool me like that. But just so we’re clear, I’ve drawn a line in blood now and you’re not getting back on the other side of it.”
Bronx sighs and lowers his lashes for a beat.
“No matter what you say, you stepped in front of a blade for me,” he says. “You can’t pretend that didn’t mean something.”
My dry throat tightens when I swallow.
“No one else is coming close to that,” he adds. “Not for me.”
“Well, that’s bad luck because I’ve no intention of staying and being made a fool of twice.”
“We’re moving on from this,” he says, firmer now. “Doing things the right way this time. We’ll renew the vows because we want to say them. Then I’m taking you away.”
“No.”
My refusal is instant.
“Yes.”
Rage flares fast and hot, burning through my veins. I push to my feet and immediately regret it; the room going dark for a beat, making me sway.
“That wasn’t about you,” I fire back. “That was instinct. Survival. Don’t twist it into something it wasn’t.”
Still on his knees, his hands catch mine, steadying me, and the contact almost takes my breath away.
“Marrying you was the best decision I ever made,” he says. “Your ring doesn’t leave your finger again. Not while I’m breathing.”
He reaches into his pocket.
When the wedding band appears in his hand, my stomach knots. My legs weaken and dark spots creep into my vision.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
He pulls me down onto his lap before I can stop him, one arm braced around my back, the other anchoring me in place. I go still for half a second as my body registers where I am.
Where I want to be.
“This is real.” His breath brushes against my jaw when he speaks, close enough that it sends a slow, dangerous awareness down my spine. “You and I are married. That’s not changing. Give me your hand so I can put your ring back where it belongs.”
I swallow hard.
“But that’s the problem… I’ll never believe you. The damage is already done.” My voice stays steady, even as my body betrays me by leaning into him, seeking comfort.
His chest rises as he inhales a deep breath.
“You’ll believe me,” he says, full of confidence. “I’ll make sure of it.”
My breath catches as his thumb brushes just below my ear, and my body reacts before I can shut it down, heat burning in a way I haven’t felt since everything fell apart.
I should move and protect myself.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and he runs his tongue between his lips, the same sweep that used to undo me, with the same teasing tension that always snapped before I could think too hard about it.
My lips part without permission, and my hand presses against his chest, not to push him away, but to hold myself there, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
“If I do this…” I say, my voice quieter now, stripped of the sharpness, “promise you won’t lie to me again… or I’ll kill you.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“I promise, princess.”
I search his face, wondering if he’s lying, but rather than sense dishonesty, I believe him.
So I close the distance myself and press my mouth to his because deep down I know there’s no pulling back from us now.
His fingers weave into my hair, and he kisses me, controlled at first, then deeper, messier, like he’s been holding it in longer than I have.
It’s heat and frustration and everything we’ve yet to fight over, and everything we’ve tried to bury.
“You’re my wife,” he says into my mouth. “And don’t you ever forget it.”