Chapter 9 #2
Marcus finishes his drink and sets the glass down with deliberate care. "Of course. Wouldn't want to upset the princess with too much truth."
He heads for the door but pauses at the threshold. "Enjoy your evening, ladies. Try not to fill her head with too many romantic notions about our life. Reality has a way of disappointing."
Then he's gone, leaving me shaking with rage and something that might be fear.
"Bastard," Raylee mutters.
"Don't listen to him," Melissa says, reaching for my arm. "Marcus has been Henry's attack dog for too many years. He sees threats everywhere, even where none exist."
"But what if he's right? What if people are dead because—"
"Stop." Raylee's voice is firm. "Right now. You are not responsible for other people's choices. You are not responsible for some madman's war. You are eighteen years old and trying to figure out where you belong."
"But—"
"No buts. Your father loved you. Henry loves you. This family wants you here. That's what matters, not Marcus' poison."
I want to believe them. I want to think I'm not some kind of curse that brings death wherever I go. But Marcus' words echo in my head, mixing with my own doubts and fears.
"I need some air," I say.
"Want company?" Melissa offers.
"No. Thanks, but I need to think."
I escape through the French doors onto Henry's terrace, grateful for the cool night air. Dublin spreads out below, lights twinkling like fallen stars. Beautiful and peaceful, nothing like the violence being planned in rooms like the one I just left.
Maybe Marcus is right. Maybe I don't belong here, with these people who've built their lives on blood and bullets. Maybe I should go back to Belfast, back to pulling pints and minding my own business.
But Belfast isn't safe anymore either, is it? Sean Jennings' father is probably still looking for revenge. And there's always another Sean, another group of men who think they can take what they want from women like me.
"Thought I might find you out here."
Freddie's voice makes me jump. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, concern etched across his face.
"How'd you know?"
"Melissa said Marcus was being a prick, figured you might need rescuing."
"I don't need rescuing."
"No," he agrees, stepping onto the terrace. "But you might need company."
He's changed since this morning, I notice. Still handsome, still dangerous, but there's something different in his eyes. Something harder. Like whatever business he's been conducting has reminded him exactly what kind of man he is.
"Rough day?" I ask.
"Getting rougher. What did Marcus say to you?"
"That my father's choices got people killed. That I'm some kind of liability the family can't afford."
Freddie's face goes dark. "Bastard."
"Is he wrong though? Are people dead because Dad kept me away from this life?"
"People are dead because Trace Harrington is a psychopath who thinks murder solves problems. That's not on you or your father."
"But if Dad had brought me home earlier, if he'd been more focused on family business—"
"Then maybe things would have been different. Or maybe they'd have been worse. You can't change the past, Alastríona. You can only decide what you do with the present."
Simple words, but he's right, of course. I can't undo the choices Dad made, can't bring back the people who've died.
"What did you learn today?" I ask. "In your meeting."
His expression hardens. "That we're running out of time. That Trace is planning something, and it involves you."
"What kind of something?"
"Nothing good. But we're going to stop it before it starts."
"How?"
"By ending this war. Permanently."
The finality in his voice sends a chill down my spine. He's not just talking about defeating Trace—he's talking about killing him.
"And after? When Trace is dead and the war is over?"
"After, you decide what kind of life you want."
"What if I want a life that doesn't involve violence? That doesn't involve looking over my shoulder every day?"
"Then you build that life. Somewhere safe, somewhere peaceful."
"And you?"
"Me what?"
"Would you be part of that life? This hypothetical peaceful existence?"
He's quiet for a long moment, considering. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured.
"I'm not a peaceful man, Alastríona. Violence is what I know, what I'm good at. Not sure I'd fit into a quiet life."
"But would you try? If I asked you to?"
"I'd try anything for you."
The words hit harder than they should. Honest, painful, everything I want to hear and everything that terrifies me.
"Freddie—"
"I know. I know you're scared, that you don't trust easily. But I need you to know that whatever happens, whatever choices you make, I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to go."
"And if I tell you to go?"
"Then I go. But I hope you won't."
He's close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne and see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"Yeah."
"We're in the middle of a war."
"Yeah."
"People are trying to kill me."
"Not if I can help it."
"You could die protecting me."
"I could die crossing the street. Life's dangerous."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be."
His hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my cheekbone. The touch is gentle, reverent, like I'm something precious he's afraid to break.
"Alastríona."
My name sounds different in his voice. Softer, more intimate. Like a prayer or a promise.
When he kisses me, it's different from last time. Hungrier, more desperate. Like he's trying to memorize the taste of me in case this is the last chance he gets.
I kiss him back without thinking, without calculating the risks or the consequences. Just feeling, just wanting, just needing something real in a world that's suddenly too complicated to navigate alone.
His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. I can taste whiskey on his lips, feel the controlled strength in his touch. This is a man who could break me without trying, but he's holding me like I'm made of glass.
"We should stop," I whisper against his mouth.
"Probably."
But neither of us moves. We stand there on Henry's terrace, kissing like the world is ending, like this moment is all we have.
His hands slide down my back, pulling me against him. I can feel his heart racing, feel the want radiating off him in waves. It makes me want to forget about consequences, about trust issues, about everything except the way he makes me feel.
"Come upstairs with me," he says.
"Freddie—"
"I know it's complicated. I know you're scared. But I need you to know that this—" he gestures between us, "this matters to me. You matter to me."
"For how long?"
"For as long as you'll have me."
Simple words honestly given. No promises about forever, no declarations of undying love. Just truth, offered without conditions.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
We make it to my room without anyone seeing us, without having to explain what we're doing or why. Just two people who want each other, despite the circumstances, despite the risks.
He closes the door behind us and turns to face me. For a moment, we just look at each other, both knowing we're about to cross a line we can't uncross.
"You sure?" he asks.
"No. But I want to be."
"That's enough."
He kisses me again, slower this time. Savoring it. His hands are careful, respectful, giving me time to change my mind.
But I don't want to change my mind. I want to forget about wars and family obligations and trust issues. I want to feel something other than fear and uncertainty.
I want to feel alive.
His jacket hits the floor, followed by his shirt. I run my hands over his chest, mapping the scars that tell the story of a violent life. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, all sharp angles and controlled strength.
"Your turn," he says, voice rough with want.
I reach for the hem of my dress and pull it over my head. His breath catches when he sees me, like I'm something he's been waiting his whole life to find.
"Christ, you're beautiful."
The reverence in his voice makes my chest tight. When was the last time someone looked at me like I was worth wanting? Worth fighting for?
He lifts me onto the bed, following me down. His mouth finds mine again, hungry, desperate. Like he's drowning and I'm the only thing that can save him.
His hands slide over my skin, leaving fire in their wake. I arch against him, lost in sensation, in the feeling of being wanted completely.
This is what I've been missing, I realize. This connection, this intimacy, this feeling of mattering to someone.
His mouth moves to my neck, to my collarbone. Each kiss sends electricity through me and makes me forget why I was scared, why I was holding back.
"Alastríona," he whispers against my skin. "Are you sure about this?"
The question cuts through the haze of want, bringing reality crashing back. Am I sure? About him, about this, about risking my heart on a man whose world is built on violence?
"I—" The word catches in my throat. "I can't."
He stops immediately, pulling back to look at me. No anger in his eyes, no frustration. Just understanding.
"Okay."
"I'm sorry. I want to, but I—"
"Hey." His voice is gentle, soothing. "You don't have to explain. You don't have to do anything you're not ready for."
"But you—"
"I'm fine. This isn't about what I want. It's about what you're comfortable with."
He rolls off me and reaches for his shirt. No dramatics, no guilt trips. Just acceptance of my decision, even if it's not what he wanted to hear.
"Don't go," I say quickly.
"I should. Give you space to think."
"I don't want space. I want you here. Just... not like this. Not yet."
He nods, understanding, then pulls his shirt back on before settling beside me on the bed. Fully clothed now, but still close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"What’s going to happen?" I ask.
"With what?"
"When this is over, when Trace is dead and I'm safe—will you still want this? Will you still want me?"
He's quiet for a long moment, considering the question seriously.
"I don't know what the future holds," he says finally. "I don't know if I'll survive what's coming, don't know if you'll still want anything to do with me when you see what I'm capable of. But right now, in this moment, I can't imagine wanting anyone else."
Honest answer. More honest than I expected.
"That's enough," I say. "For now, that's enough."
He kisses my forehead, gentle and sweet. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
"More complicated than today?"
"Much more."
He starts to leave, but I catch his hand.
"Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. Whatever you're planning, whatever you have to do, just be careful."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the memory of his touch and the weight of promises we both hope we can keep.