Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
K iera
I woke up alone.
I blinked awake, the softness of the bed beneath me so unlike my own that it took a moment to remember where I was. And then it hit me.
Ronan .
I sat up quickly, clutching the thick duvet to my chest, scanning the room for him. The space was empty, the spot beside me cold, though the faint scent of him still lingered on the pillows—a mix of cedar, leather, and something dark that was purely Ronan.
He’d put me to bed in his bed last night.
We’d slept together.
I remembered the warmth of his arms, the weight of him curled around me as he drifted off, his presence both suffocating and strangely reassuring. But now, the room felt cavernous and cold, reminding me of just how out of place I was in his world.
The events of last night crept in, vivid and impossible to push aside. I bit my lip, my cheeks burning as fragments of his touch replayed in my mind, of how he’d put me over his knee, about how he’d fucked me over his couch after whipping me with his belt, about how he’d taken me to dinner and made me come with his finger in my bottom in the restaurant.
I hated how my body responded even now, a pulse of reluctant heat coiling low in my belly. My clit pulsed as if to spite me.
“Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath, throwing off the covers.
But even still, my heart pulsed just thinking about him.
I hated how easily he unraveled me, how his touch made me feel both safe and utterly exposed. And yet, as I’d sat there watching him, I couldn’t deny the truth that had been quietly blooming inside me: I didn’t just want his protection. I wanted him— all of him .
Trying to distract myself from the thought of him, I padded to the closet in search of something to wear, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. My clothes from last night were scattered somewhere, but the sight of Ronan’s neatly arranged shirts caught my attention instead. I reached for one, a crisp white button-up that smelled like him, and slipped it on. It was far too big, the hem brushing mid-thigh, but it would do.
When I took a step, I could still feel a residual soreness between my thighs that made my cheeks heat.
The coolness of the penthouse contrasted sharply with the heat still lingering on my skin. The place was so meticulously kept, every piece of furniture perfectly arranged, every surface spotless.
I wandered through the living room, my gaze drifting over the shelves lined with leather-bound books, a few framed photographs of the Irish coast, and a sleek decanter of amber liquid on the bar cart. But there was little else that hinted at the man himself. No clutter, no personal touches—nothing to give away the mysteries I was searching for.
Who are you, Ronan O’Malley?
I found myself drawn to his desk, the surface stark and polished save for a neatly stacked pile of papers and a black leather notebook. My fingers hovered over it for a moment before I pulled back, a flicker of guilt surfacing. But the temptation was strong.
Last night, he’d stripped me bare, not just physically, but in a way that left me exposed and raw. Yet here I was, surrounded by his secrets, and he remained a perfectly wrapped enigma.
I was about to reach for the notebook when the shrill ring of my phone shattered the silence.
I jumped, scrambling to find where I’d left it. The screen lit up with Leena’s name, and I hesitated before answering.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound normal, though my voice came out a bit shaky.
“Kiera! Finally. Where the hell are you? I came back to the apartment last night, and you weren’t there. I’ve been calling!” Leena’s voice was more than a little panicked, the worry in her tone undeniable.
I swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. “I… uh, I stayed somewhere else. Don’t freak out.”
“Don’t freak out?” she repeated, incredulous. “You don’t answer your phone, you disappear without a word, and I’m supposed to not freak out? Marco could have kidnapped you!”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“You should be. Did you call Ronan?” she pressed.
I bit my lip, my gaze flicking around the penthouse. “Yeah, I called him.”
“And?” she pressed. “Did he help? What happened? The power at the apartment went out last night—like, completely. Then it came back on this morning. Did it have anything to do with Marco? Did Ronan handle it?”
I sank onto the couch, clutching the phone like a lifeline. “Yeah. Ronan’s handling it.”
Leena let out a relieved breath. “Okay, good. But why didn’t you come home? Did Ronan make you stay with him?”
I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. How could I explain what had happened between the two of us? My face heated just thinking about all the shameful things he’d done to me last night.
“It’s complicated,” I said finally.
“Complicated how?” Leena asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, though my pulse raced as I said it. “He’s taking care of everything. I promise.”
Leena sighed, frustration evident in her voice. “You’re sure?”
My cheeks flushed as memories of last night surfaced, unbidden. His hands, his voice, the way his palm had burned with every hard swat, the way his cock felt buried deep inside me…
“I’m sure,” I said firmly, though the lie tasted bitter.
There was a pause on her end before she spoke again, softer this time. “Okay. Just—be careful, Kiera. Please. Call me if you need anything, alright?”
“I will,” I promised, my chest tightening.
“Before I forget, a few men came by this morning and cleared out your closet. Just wanted you to know,” she added quickly.
“That’s odd. I wonder if that was Ronan too,” I murmured.
“Oh, one last thing. I’m going to be out of town for a little while this weekend. You have my number in case you need anything.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” I said.
This was the one weekend she disappeared every month just to get away from everything that was her life: the constant protection, the surveillance, and what it meant to be the little sister of a big-time Irish mafia boss in New York City.
I remember the first weekend she’d done it. She’d come to me with a proud look on her face before she left.
“Listen, I’m going off the grid for a couple days, Kiera,” she’d said, grinning like a kid sneaking out of school. “Me and this girl from my gym are going glamping at this lodge up in northern New York. No tracking, no stress—just fresh air, campfires, and s’mores. I know you’re not into all the dirt and mud, so I figured you wouldn’t want to come.”
When I’d stared at her blankly, she’d laughed and handed me a scrap of paper with a burner phone number scribbled across it.
“Call me on this if it’s urgent. And don’t lose it, okay? Ronan doesn’t know, and I’d like to keep it that way,” she’d added.
At the time, I’d rolled my eyes and shoved the paper in my purse for safekeeping.
“Good. See you soon, Kiera,” Leena said into the phone, and we said our goodbyes.
When the call ended, I dropped the phone onto the couch and let out a shaky breath. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to figure out what my life had become in the span of twenty-four hours.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Ronan’s voice, smooth and low, sent a jolt through me. I pulled my hands away to find him standing in the doorway, his dark hair slightly mussed as if the wind had toyed with it, his piercing gray eyes fixed on me with a flicker of amusement.
“Do you always sneak up on people like that?” I shot back, though my pulse quickened at the sight of him.
He smirked, stepping further into the room. “Only when they’re lost in thought.” His gaze drifted down, lingering for a moment on the oversized shirt I’d borrowed. “Nice look, by the way.”
I tugged at the hem instinctively, suddenly aware of how much of my legs were on display. “It was the only thing I could find.”
“I’m not complaining.” His smirk widened, but there was something warmer in his eyes, something that made my cheeks flush.
Ronan closed the distance between us, his steps unhurried, but deliberate. When he reached me, he slid his hand into my hair, fingers tangling gently as his thumb brushed my temple.
“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice softer now.
My body betrayed me with the way it leaned into his touch.
“Good morning,” I managed, my voice a bit too breathy for my liking.
His eyes dropped to my lips, and for a moment, the air between us felt impossibly heavy. Then he leaned down, brushing his lips against mine in a kiss so gentle it was almost maddening. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that demanded—it was the kind that lingered, teasing, making me crave more even as he pulled away.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just scrambled every coherent thought in my head.
I blinked up at him, still dazed. “Uh… no. Not yet.”
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that felt like a victory I didn’t quite understand. “We’ll fix that in a bit. But first, there’s something you need to know.”
His hand slipped from my hair, and I felt its absence keenly as he stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. He looked completely at ease, but there was finality in his tone when he spoke next.
“My men went to your apartment this morning. Collected your things.”
I nodded, not telling him that Leena had already told me.
“Why?” I asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.
“Because you’re moving in here,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I stared at him, my brain scrambling to catch up. “I… what? No, I’m not.”
He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused, but firm. “Yes, you are.”
“Ronan, you can’t just?—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice calm, but unyielding. “You don’t get to tell me no, Kiera. Not about this. Not about anything. You’re staying here where I can keep you safe, and that’s final.”
I folded my arms, trying to muster up some defiance, but it felt half-hearted at best. “You could’ve at least asked me.”
His smirk returned, this time much darker. “And you would’ve said no.”
“That’s not the point!” I huffed, pouting despite myself.
He reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek before tilting my chin up slightly. “It’s exactly the point. You’re mine now, Kiera, my woman. That means I look after you. That means I take care of you. You don’t have to like it, but you will accept it.”
Ronan’s claim over me was overwhelming, consuming, and utterly inescapable. He’d said it with such conviction—as if the decision had always been his and his alone to make, as if I hadn’t been part of the equation at all. And yet, as much as I wanted to fight it, to tell him he had no right to decide my life for me, a small, traitorous part of me didn’t hate it.
That small part of me actually kind of liked it.
The idea of belonging to someone like Ronan—strong, ruthless, unwavering—terrified me, but it also sent a pulse of warmth straight to my heart. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from his claim or sink deeper into it, but either way, I knew there was no escaping the way he made me feel.
I wasn’t allowed to say no, after all.
Not that I even wanted to…
He turned away, walking toward the sleek kitchen as though the argument had been settled. I watched as he rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt, exposing forearms corded with muscle. He pulled out a skillet and set it on the stovetop.
“What are you doing?” I asked, trailing after him, curiosity overpowering my annoyance.
“Making breakfast,” he said without looking back. “Unless you’d rather pout on an empty stomach?”
“I’m not pouting,” I muttered, crossing my arms.
He glanced over his shoulder, his grin firmly in place. “Sure, you’re not.”
I huffed, but stayed quiet as he opened the fridge, pulling out eggs, butter, and some fresh herbs. He turned on the stovetop, the blue flame flickering to life, and cracked the eggs into a bowl with a sort of practiced skill that caught me off guard.
“Since when do you cook?” I asked, leaning against the counter.
“Since always,” he replied, whisking the eggs effortlessly. “You think I survive on takeout and intimidation alone?”
The corners of my mouth twitched despite myself. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
He chuckled softly, tossing a small pat of butter into the pan and swirling it until it melted. The eggs followed, the sizzle filling the air as he reached for a spatula. Then he set up a French press on the counter and began to brew coffee for the two of us. I couldn’t stop watching him, the way he moved with such confidence even in something as mundane as making breakfast.
“Go sit,” he said, nodding toward the island where two stools waited. “This won’t take long.”
I slid onto one of the stools, watching as he worked. He sprinkled a pinch of salt and pepper into the eggs, then added a handful of chopped herbs. It was almost domestic—except for the fact that he was Ronan O’Malley, one of the most powerful Irish mafia bosses in New York City, a man who could end someone’s life with no more than a single crook of his finger.
When he plated the scrambled eggs, he added two slices of toast and slid the plate in front of me. He poured a mug of coffee and set it down beside it before finally sitting across from me, his own plate identical.
“Eat,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I picked up my fork, the smell alone enough to make my stomach growl. As I took the first bite, I couldn’t stop the small sigh that escaped me. It was perfectly creamy, the herbs adding just the right amount of freshness.
He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Good?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I replied, though my tone lacked any real bite.
Ronan leaned back slightly, his coffee cup in hand as he watched me. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, like he was content just to sit there and share this moment. And for a few minutes, the tension between us melted away, replaced by something softer.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time in what felt like days, the world outside—the chaos, the danger, the Benedettis—faded into the background. It was just the two of us in his pristine penthouse, sharing breakfast like… well, like two normal people. Almost.
Ronan’s gaze lingered on me as I ate, and while I tried to focus on my food, it was impossible to ignore him.
There was something about the way he looked at me that made me squirm. Not in a bad way, though. It was unnerving because I didn’t know what he was thinking, what he was planning, and most of all, because I liked it.
“What are you thinking?” I asked him.
“About all the things I’ve done to you, and all the things I have yet to do to you,” he murmured.
I blushed hard and looked down, staring down at my still-full plate of food.
“Finish your breakfast. We’ve got things to discuss,” he dictated.
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Things?”
Ronan’s expression shifted, the teasing glint fading, replaced by something more serious.
“About Marco. And about what happens next.”