Chapter 18
Aoife
“Where are my clothes?”
“In the laundry room,” he says while pulling a tee over his head. “Wait there. I’ll get them.”
“I can go,” I say, climbing off the bed.
“You don’t need to,” he replies, already pulling the door open. “I’m here now.”
I’m here now. Those words echo in my head as he strides off, barefoot, his pants on but undone, looking like the sexiest giant in all of Ireland.
With a groan, I flop back to the bed and rub my fingertips over my sore knuckles. I pull the strips off, getting pissed off with them, and then I get on my feet again and move to the en-suite. I turn the shower on and wait for it to heat up as Aran comes back with my clothes, all washed and dried.
He leans in the doorway as I step into the shower, watching me with those blue eyes that are like a storm waiting to break.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve got new clothes coming for you later.”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“You don’t need to take care of me, Aran. I’m a grown woman.”
“I want to.”
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
“So are you. Why are you so reluctant to let me help you?”
“I’m not used to it,” I mumble, turning my back to him and reaching for the soap.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, “Get used to it.”
“You make everything sound like an order.”
“That’s because half the time you need one.”
I rinse off quickly and turn the water off. Turning to him, I’m not surprised to find him standing there holding out a towel. I step into it and he wraps it around me. My eyes are level with his chest, and I tilt my head back to look up at him. “Thanks,” I murmur.
“Don’t thank me. I want to take care of you, Aoife. Please understand that and stop resisting it.”
“I’m not resisting. I’m cautious.”
“I am not that prick,” he says, turning from me and gripping the sink like he is about to rip it out of the wall with his bare hands. “I will never hurt you.”
“Those are big words from a man who barely knows me.” My voice is quiet, but he hears me.
“I don’t need to know you to know this is what I want,” he says, almost as quietly. He turns to me, his gaze boring into mine.
“Don’t I get a say?”
“No,” he says and straightens up, pushing past me.
“No?” I challenge, going after him. “No?”
He does up his pants with brisk hands as he contemplates his next words. Very carefully, judging by the fierce frown. “Mine,” he says eventually. “In every way. That means if you run, I will stop you.”
“You sound an awful lot like Darragh,” I mutter and then freeze.
He smiles.
“You utter prick,” I hiss, more pissed off with myself for falling into the trap he laid wide open for me.
“Be pissed off, but you just narrowed this down for me.”
“I hate you,” I grit out and grab my clothes from the neat pile on the bed and stalk back to the bathroom to dress.
I kick the door to close it behind me, but his hand grips the edge. “Dress in here, where I can see you,” he says.
“Don’t,” I say, tears pricking my eyes. “Don’t be like him.”
“I’m nothing like him, sweetheart. I want to watch you dress because it will turn me on.
I want to see you all the time, not because I want to control you but because you are the only thing in this world that makes me feel something.
You make my cock hard just by being near me.
You’re beautiful, funny, sexy as fuck. Feisty.
You drive me crazy. And still, I want to keep you here where no one can hurt you. ”
The tears ease off a fraction.
I stare at him, towel clutched tighter around me. He’s standing there still barefoot, huge, serious, maddeningly sure of himself.
“Those are still fucked-up reasons,” I whisper.
“Maybe.” His gaze stays on mine. “But they’re honest.”
That hits harder than it should.
Because Darragh lied. He dressed his shit up pretty. Concern. Love. Protection. Aran doesn’t. He hands over the ugly truth and lets it sit there between us, raw and blunt and impossible to pretty up.
I hate that my body knows the difference before my head catches up.
His voice drops. “You say stop, I stop. You say no, it’s no. You want space, you get it. You want me near, I’m there. I don’t need to break you to keep you.”
The words land low in my stomach. Quietly. Deeply.
“Stay,” I say and drop the towel. I’ve never dressed in front of anyone before without a critical gaze raking over me.
This is different. I force myself not to cover up again.
My bra goes on first. Plain, black, a bit worn. I hook it at the front because my fingers are still stiff, then twist it around. I feel his eyes on me the whole time. Not picking me apart. Not measuring flaws. Just looking.
It should make me want to bolt.
Instead, my skin goes hot.
I drag my panties up my legs. Then my jeans. The denim sticks a bit where my thighs are still tender, and that brings back a very clear memory of him inside me, pinning me to a wall, and I nearly lose my train of thought altogether.
When I straighten, he’s still there in the doorway. Still watching. His jaw is tight. His eyes are darker now.
I tug my t-shirt on and push my hair back. “Happy?”
“No.”
I frown. “No?”
“No,” he repeats. “Because now I can’t see you. There’s a new toothbrush under the sink.” He steps back from the door and closes it, giving me room to at least brush my teeth in private.
I breathe out slowly, my hands shaking as I fumble for the toothbrush, struggling to get it out of the box.
By the time I finish, my pulse has settled enough that I can look at myself in the mirror without seeing a stranger.
I look wrecked, to be fair. Hair slightly damp from the shower spray. Lips swollen. Eyes too bright. A woman in old clothes standing in a gangster’s bathroom, brushing her teeth with a brand-new toothbrush like this is in any way normal.
I rinse my mouth and open the door.
Aran is waiting outside, of course.
He looks down at my hands straight away. “Where are the strips?”
I hold them up. “In the bin. They were annoying me.”
His stare sharpens. “Your knuckles split.” He steps in, catches my wrist, and turns my hand palm-down. The scrape across my knuckles has opened a bit, red and angry-looking.
I pull my hand back. “I’m okay. Honestly.”
He nods once, but I know he will be looking for any sign that I’m in pain.
It makes my heart skip a beat, and my stomach clenches, but in a good way. It’s been a long time since someone wanted to take my pain away.
And that right there is the whole problem with this toxic dynamic.
I know it.
But I can’t seem to bring myself to care.