14. Chapter Fourteen Ruby
Chapter Fourteen: Ruby
M y hand felt like it was on fire.
It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up, groggy and unsure of where I was.
Then everything else came into sharp focus: I was on Kieran’s sofa, my shirt still smelled like him, and my head was pounding.
The bandages were too tight, the pain a steady pulse in my fingers. I flexed them instinctively. Bad idea.
Then, a second assault: the smell of eggs and bacon and coffee, all conspiring to remind me of the hell I was in. My stomach growled, which was bullshit, considering where I was.
Kieran’s voice sliced through that flood of memory. Low and smooth, as if this was just a casual conversation.
As if we did this all the fucking time.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he said from the kitchen, then started whistling Hungry Like The Wolf.
I forced myself upright, the couch creaking beneath me.
Everything hurt. My hand. My ribs. The corners of my eyes, rubbed raw from exhaustion.
My chest heavy. It was still dark outside, the barest glimmer of dawn on the horizon, and a quick glance at my watch told me it was just after four in the morning.
And then, just to top it all off, my gaze landed on the triptych hanging on the far wall.
Boston. His Boston.
A three-panel oil painting, the city stretched across it in bold strokes of shadow and light, a fractured skyline split into thirds. A statement piece, perfectly curated, perfectly placed. It was the kind of thing someone bought when they wanted to be reminded of the kingdom they owned.
My stomach twisted.
I knew it wasn’t there for me—Kieran wouldn’t decorate his home around my political career. But it felt personal.Like even now, even here, I couldn’t escape the fact that this city— my city—was still under Callahan control.
My eyes flicked to the rest of the space.
Everything else was controlled and personally tailored.
Leather and steel. Minimalist, but not impersonal.
An electric guitar with the word Suhr scribbled on the neck propped up in the corner, a framed Celtic Football Club poster, a cross-stitched coat of arms—and all of it perfectly at home.
Unlike me.
Kieran moved in the kitchen like it was already noon, like he hadn’t spent all night not sleeping, same as me.
I watched him for a second, the way his muscles flexed under the twisting lines of black ink on his back, the easy, practiced way he flipped something in the pan.
Completely unbothered. As if he had no idea that the sight of him shirtless was doing something to me.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “What the hell are you doing?”
My voice was rough with sleep. Kieran didn’t even turn around.
“Making breakfast.”
Like this was normal. Like any of this was fucking normal. I looked around, my gaze finally landing on one of the home assistant displays. “It’s still dark outside, Kieran.”
He shrugged like the hour didn’t apply to him. “You didn’t eat last night. You’re gonna eat before I take you home.”
I dragged myself off the couch, feeling every bit like a ninety-year-old, and shuffled to the kitchen island.
It was set neatly with two plates, two mugs.
My hand throbbed, reminding me of why I was here in the first place.
Reminding me of everything. I collapsed into a chair and gave him the best death glare I could muster in this state. It didn’t faze him.
He was serving the food like this was a goddamn bed-and-breakfast.
“You’re insufferable,” I muttered. He hummed in response, not even trying to defend himself.
I watched him pour coffee, adding cream and sugar. “Let me see...you’re a mood drinker, right. Hard night last night...You want some coffee with your three sugars in the morning, right?”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said, and kept pouring the coffee. Exactly how I liked it. The jerk. My pride wanted me to refuse it, but the caffeine-addicted part of me won. I took a sip, and it was perfect. Of course it was.
“Don’t act like you’re proud of yourself,” I said, catching the way his mouth quirked up as he watched me drink.
“It’s not an act. I am proud of myself.”
I glared at him. We sat in silence, the tension between us as hot and bittersweet as the coffee.
As much as I hated to admit it, there was something weirdly comforting about this whole scenario.
Me, injured and sleep-deprived. Him, maddeningly composed.
It was like we were replaying some old scene we’d acted a hundred times before.
Like the uneasy comfort of a well-worn bruise.
And for a fleeting second, I had a horrifying thought: I could get used to this.
The thought unsettled me so badly I put my coffee down, too hard, like that would help shake it loose from my brain.
I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t have stayed here.
Kieran was watching me—of course he was—leaning against the counter, eyes sharp as ever. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just thinking.”
“Thinking so hard you had a physical reaction?”
“Gimme a break, okay? I’m exhausted and hurt.”
“Oh, I’m not judging…I just didn’t know thinking about me had that kind of effect on you.” His eyes dragged over me like I was his to look at.. “I thought it was cute. I liked it.”
I ignored him, pushing away from the table. My ribs protested the sudden movement, but I forced myself up anyway. Move. Get out. Go home. I grabbed my phone and winced—six missed messages from Alek.
Shit.
Kieran caught the way my face shifted, the way my posture stiffened. His voice stayed easy, infuriatingly smooth. “Finally remember you have somewhere to be?”
“Shut up.” I exhaled, pressing my right hand to my temple, which was a mistake. I felt hollowed out, strung too tight, stretched thin, and my hand ached like a motherfucker.
Note to self: apparently it takes more than one assistant D.A. to change a lightbulb.
Kieran took his time setting his own mug down before pushing off the counter. "I’ll drive you.”
I should’ve argued. I wanted to argue. But my hand still ached, and my body felt like I’d been thrown down a flight of stairs.
And the thought of standing outside in the cold, waiting for an Uber, suddenly seemed like a very stupid hill to die on…
especially because my car was in his fucking driveway.
So I nodded once, short and clipped. “Fine.”
Kieran smirked like I’d just lost some invisible game. He grabbed the keys to my car, moving like he’d known that I’d let him take me home.
I hated that. I hated him.
Mostly, I hated myself for following him out the door.
The drive back to my place was suffocating.
Kieran didn’t say anything, and I didn’t trust myself to speak.
The silence was dense, almost physical, like it was absorbing all the things we weren’t saying.
The city slid by in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks.
I was too exhausted to think straight but too wired to relax, my senses jumping at every passing car.
I snuck glances at him, watching the way his hands gripped the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road with the kind of focus that said he wasn’t ignoring me by accident.
He knew I was here. Knew I was watching him, processing everything and nothing all at once.
I tried to turn my attention to the scenery outside, but it was useless.
The streets looked different now, somehow.
The old familiarity felt foreign, like I was seeing them from a different angle entirely.
An angle I shouldn’t have gotten used to.
Kieran shifted, and for a second, I thought he might actually speak, but the silence stretched on. It was almost unbearable, but at the same time, it felt oddly fitting.
Like anything we could’ve said would have ruined something delicate.
Or maybe that was just my sleep-deprived brain finding excuses for why I was still here, in my car, with him in the driver seat. I glanced at him again, catching the way his eyes flicked toward me and then back to the road. It sent an annoying little thrill down my spine, and I hated myself for it.
He didn’t speak at all until we were pulling up to my house—Julian’s house, really, though I didn’t like thinking of it that way.
But Kieran? He was thinking about it. I could feel it in the shift of his body, the way his eyes flicked over the facade like he was already cataloguing the windows, the door, the places he could walk in without being invited.
When he finally did speak, his voice was too casual. A slow drawl that made my skin prickle.
“You know,” he said, “you could’ve just asked me to stay here.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, it’s aspirational. I’m aspiring.”
I snorted, trying to hide the way my pulse jumped. “You didn’t even give me the chance. You just took me back to yours.”
“Yeah, I was worried you weren’t going to ask me to stay,” he said, eyes never leaving my face. “Didn’t want to leave anything to chance. But don’t worry, Rubes… next time, you won’t even have to say it. I’ll know.”
My throat tightened. “And what if there isn’t a next time?”
He smiled, slow and sharp. The kind of smile that promised things I wasn’t ready to admit I wanted.
“Then I’ll just have to live with the memory,” he murmured. “Of the way you pulled my hair…your thighs wrapped around me, you grinding on my cock in nothing but those black underwear. Let’s just say…I’ve got a few new fantasies about you, this place…that drawer in your nightstand.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“Go fuck yourself, Callahan,” I said, but it came out breathy.
“Maybe later,” he said. “You rest. I’ll take my car…looks like Hannah dropped it off.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
He started to get out, but paused. “And Ruby?”
I turned.
He grinned. “Try not to think about me too much.”