8. Aoife
Aoife
Back at the villa, the air feels charged, thick with the remnants of the day—salt, sun, and the undercurrent of the undeniable chemistry we share. I set my bag on the table, grabbing my phone, and immediately notice the string of missed calls and texts lighting up the screen.
Ruairi. Da.
The phone unlocks with a soft click, and a scroll through the messages reveals Ruairi’s usual style—short, clipped, every word edged with frustration.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay casual. “I need to make a phone call.”
He turns to me. “Is everything okay?”
“Just something I need to handle,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “It won’t take long.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, his sharp eyes studying me with a calculating intensity. But then he nods and motions toward the door.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, his tone casual but edged with curiosity. He takes his drink and steps out onto the deck, sliding the glass door shut behind him.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and scroll through the missed calls and texts one more time. My chest tightens as I open the most recent voicemail and press play.
“Aoife,” my father’s voice booms, his Irish lilt harsher than usual. “I haven’t heard from you, and neither has your brother. You were supposed to call home this morning. If I don’t hear back from you by tonight, I’ll send my men to find you. Do not make me do that.”
My stomach twists as his words echo in my head.
Do not make me do that . The unspoken threat is clear.
He’ll use this as proof that I’m not capable, that I don’t belong in the Syndicate.
I’ve been working hard to prove that I’m strong and independent—that I can handle myself.
I won’t let a single mistake unravel my carefully constructed plan.
I glance toward the deck, where Eamon’s looking out over the water, his broad shoulders illuminated by the soft hues of the setting sun. For a moment, I’m tempted to follow the pull he seems to have on me, to lose myself in the easy distraction he offers. But this isn’t a conversation I can avoid.
Slipping into the bedroom, I close the door behind me and press the phone to my ear.
“Hi, Da.”
“Aoife,” he says, his tone warm but threaded with irritation. “You vanished. No calls. No texts. Do you have any idea what kind of risk that puts you in?”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, keeping my voice low. “I got caught up in sightseeing.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “You’re alone, right?” he asks.
“Of course,” I lie, glancing around the room. It’s then I notice them—Eamon’s suitcases. They’re neatly stacked in the corner of my bedroom. My heart skips a beat, my mind racing with so many questions. When did he do this? How did they get here?
“Aoife?” my father prompts, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
“Yes,” I reply quickly, forcing my focus back on the call. “No one’s here but me.”
His skepticism is almost tangible, but he doesn’t press. “Alright,” he finally says, though his tone is far from convinced. “But call your brother tomorrow. He’s worried, and you know how he gets.”
“I will,” I promise, forcing my voice to sound light and unconcerned.
“Do not make me rethink allowing you to continue traveling alone ,” he warns. His emphasis on the word alone doesn’t escape me.
“I won’t. Talk soon.”
I hang up and let out a shaky breath, my eyes flicking back to the suitcases. Why are they here? Eamon hadn’t mentioned staying longer—or staying at all, for that matter.
This double life I’ve crafted, balancing who I am and who I pretend to be, is beginning to feel like a house of cards. And Eamon? He’s the wild card I can’t predict. One wrong move and it’ll all come crashing down.
When I return to the deck, he’s leaning casually against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest. “Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low.
“Fine,” I say lightly, brushing past to lean against the railing beside him. “When were you planning on telling me you moved in?”
He turns to look at me, the fading sunlight catching the mischievous glint in his eyes. “I thought it was obvious.”
“Obvious?” I repeat, arching a brow. “You don’t think that’s something you should’ve run by me first?”
Eamon shrugs, unbothered. “I had my things sent here while we were out. Figured it’d save me the trouble of doing it myself now.”
My pulse kicks up, a mix of indignation and something far more dangerous—excitement. “You figured?”
His hand brushes against mine on the railing. “You’re not complaining, are you?”
I open my mouth to retort, but before I can get a word out, he grips my waist and pulls me onto his lap as he sits down on one of the cushioned deck chairs. My breath catches as I settle against him, his hands firm and possessive on my hips.
“Eamon,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, though the heat of his body against mine is already making my thoughts scatter. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” he cuts me off, his voice low and commanding, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “And I will.”
His words send a shiver through me, and I can’t help the way my body reacts by leaning into him, even as my mind protests.
“You’re impossible,” I murmur, my hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palms.
“And you love it,” he counters, his lips trailing down my neck, his hands sliding beneath the hem of my dress.
I want to argue, but the words die on my tongue as his fingers skim the bare skin of my thighs, the heat of his touch igniting a fire that spreads through me.
His lips claim mine in a kiss that’s all heat and possession, his hands pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. I gasp against his mouth as his fingers slide higher until they find exactly what they’re looking for.
“You’re already wet for me,” he growls, his voice rough with desire as his fingers delve into my heat.
I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan, but he’s relentless. His other hand tangles in my hair as he tilts my head back to meet his gaze.
“Don’t hold back, love,” he says, his voice low and demanding, his fingers moving with a rhythm that has me trembling in his lap.
The sound that escapes me is raw and unrestrained. It only seems to spur him on. His teeth graze my skin as his fingers work me with a precision that leaves me breathless.
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as the pleasure builds, sharp and all-consuming. “Eamon,” I gasp, my voice breaking as my body arches against him, chasing the release that’s just within reach.
“Let go,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. “I want to hear you come for me.”
His words push me over the edge. My body shudders in his arms as waves of pleasure crash over me. Eamon holds me through it, his grip steady and unyielding as I come undone.
But he doesn’t stop. He adjusts his grip, lifting me slightly while his fingers work quickly between us. The shift of fabric and the heat of his touch sends a jolt of desire straight through me.
It doesn’t make sense how I can still want him like this seconds after falling apart. But my body doesn’t care. It answers him anyway, aching all over again.
He positions me over his hard length, and in one smooth motion, he’s inside me, the sudden fullness stealing my breath.
“Christ,” he groans, his head tipping back as his fingers dig into my hips. “You’re fucking perfect. Like you were made for me.”
His intensity and the way he fills me leave me reeling. I move instinctively, my hands braced on his shoulders as I ride him, the rhythm building between us until it’s all I can focus on.
His lips find mine again, the kiss messy and desperate as our movements grow more frantic. My release builds again, more intense this time, and when it hits, it pulls a choked cry from my lips.
Eamon follows moments later, his hands gripping me tightly as he thrusts into me one last time.
We stay like that for a moment, tangled together in the fading light, our breathing heavy as the sound of the waves fills the silence around us.
“You’re still impossible,” I murmur, my voice shaky but teasing as I rest my forehead against his.
“And you’re still mine,” he replies, his tone softer now but no less possessive.