22. Ryder
Driving home, I count the miles as they pass until I get to my little sparrow. She’s consumed me, but I know any indication of this will spook her and she may very well fly away for good.
Each day I get a little closer. When our bodies are entwined, she lets her walls down, but only enough for me to peer over. Learning Devina has become my new obsession.
The way she sighs when retrieving a memory before she shares it with me causes an eagerness I’m not used to. I’ve learned bits and pieces about her childhood, which is always interesting. The way she speaks about Declan makes me sick to my stomach. She adores the man I hate, but I recognize that she wouldn’t be mine right now if the cards hadn’t fallen exactly as they have.
My initial idea of killing her barely made it to a cohesive thought before I realized I wanted nothing more than for her to want me as much as I want her. Hating her brother, was still relatively easy. As the years passed since Michaela’s death, I allowed hatred to drive me, motivating me into the position I was in. I had every intention of using bullets to take down the Sullivans. What I hadn’t anticipated was a damn Sullivan becoming someone I am growing increasingly needy for each day.
With every touch, every moan, every gaze she gave me before her eyes fluttered shut each night, Devina began to heal pieces of me that she didn’t break.
The sun is setting as I pull into the drive and park my bike at the bottom of the stairs. I can feel her before I see her as she opens the front door and leans against the frame.
“Took you long enough. I’ve been slaving away all day in this kitchen and you come strolling in whenever you tire of gallivanting around town.” This has become part of our nightly ritual. I get home and she pretends to pester me about something. Tonight she seems to be a lonely housewife and is even wearing an apron.
“The unsavory parts of this town won’t run themselves, my dear.” I play my role in her little game as I make my way up the steps and sweep her off of her feet. “How will I ever make it up to you?” I kiss her neck waiting to hear how delicious our makeup time will be.
“Nope. Not tonight. I really did make you dinner.” She crinkles her nose and wiggles free from my arms.
I set her down and sturdy her before me. “You made me dinner?”
“Well yeah, that’s what good wives do, right?” With her hands on her hips and her hair tied up in a bun, I’m not sure how seriously I can take her.
“Well, now I’m really happy to be home.” I quip and take in a whiff of the aroma coming from the kitchen that has me wondering if she’s trying to burn the house down. “What did you make? It smells like —”
Her eyes grow twice in size “Oh no!” She rushes off to the kitchen just in time to pull a burnt sheet pan out of the oven. “How did I manage to make an entire lasagna but burn a loaf of garlic bread?” She wipes her hair out of her face with the back of her mitted hand. She’s adorable.
“I believe the bread is the most difficult part.” I rationalize for her, though she isn’t buying it.
“I’m sorry, I was trying to do something nice,” she pouts as I lift her to sit on the counter.
“This is nice. But I’d be just as satisfied if you were the only thing on the menu tonight,” I lean my forehead to hers. Her scent brings my desire to the surface. Lavender.
“I want to feel normal,” she confesses.
“And you think lasagna is going to make you feel normal?” I pry.
“No, I think having dinner ready for my husband when he gets home will make me feel normal.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better -”
She raises her hand to my mouth to silence me. “Fiona having dinner ready doesn’t count.”
“I don’t think we were meant for that version of ‘normal’. But I promise I prefer whatever we have happening right now,” she tilts her head back with a sigh.
“Can we just forget this happened and find something else to do for the rest of the night?” She buries her face in her hands and I pause to take in the mess around the kitchen that I hadn’t noticed until now.
The stench of burnt toast lingered and various pots lined the counters.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget this,” I chuckle, reaching into the sink and pulling up an ice cream scoop. My expression is asking a million questions.
She pushes me away and rolls her eyes. “Does it bother you that this isn’t real?”
“Not real?” Now she has every bit of attention that wasn’t already hers.
She wrings her hands together on her lap. “I mean, does it bother you that our marriage is a contract? An arrangement? We didn’t meet in a café or at a park. Our first kiss was at our wedding. We haven’t even been on a date.” I sense that this has been bothering her.
“Every marriage is a contract. Besides, my parents were arranged.” I drop the ice cream scoop back into the sink and find my way back to her. “Being completely honest, I don’t care how I got lucky enough to have you here, in my kitchen, burning my dinner, but I’m glad that you are. If you had any doubt, you should know that I would happily choke down that charred loaf of bread if it meant I get to come home to you every night.”
Her eyes widened as if realizing for the first time that this was more than a transaction to me. I leaned down to meet her gaze. “This is not an arrangement, Devina. This marriage is real. It is real when I kiss you good morning. It is real when you come on my cock at night. And unless I’ve completely misread what has been happening between us the past few weeks, I believe every fucking ounce of this marriage is real.”
“Oh.” Her voice is barely a whisper as she shivers beneath my touch. I slide my fingers down her arm, just how she likes and her gaze becomes hazy at the sound of my confession.
She’s right. This was an arrangement. A business deal between rival families. But it’s been the best thing that has ever happened to me and fuck me for not making it abundantly clear to my wife.