Chapter 6
Sean
The overpowering scent of bleach, with an underlying waft of coffee, wakes me. I groan and turn over in bed, only to realize too late, I’m on the couch, and I fall on the floor in a heap of bad hangover.
I crack an eye to see it’s dark out, but someone has turned on a muted light that doesn’t hurt when I open the other eye.
“He lives.”
A beautiful Irish lilt, that definitely doesn’t belong to Millie, drifts down over the back of the couch.
I turn my head to see her.
Ciara O’Byrne.
She is resting her hands on the back of the couch as she leans slightly forward to take in the disgrace that is me.
She is perfectly put together in a tight black tee, her long dark hair curled up in a tight bun on top of her head.
Her long, deep red nails are vivid against the white leather of the couch.
Christ, she's beautiful.
The thought slams into me with the subtlety of a brick through a window, and I hate it.
I hate that even through the pounding in my skull and the sour taste of whisky in my mouth, I notice.
The curve of her waist. The way the black fabric clings to her tits.
Those nails that look like they could draw blood.
I wonder what they'd feel like raking down my back.
Then I remember she's here because my father sold me like livestock, and the ugly part of me wants to ruin her just for standing there looking so fucking untouchable.
“What are you doing here?” I mumble.
“I live here now,” she says, her voice as smooth as the whisky that put me on this fucking floor. “Our fathers thought it would be best if we became acquainted before the wedding.”
I push myself up, my head throbbing in time with my heartbeat. The room is spotless. The shattered bottle is gone. The whisky stain on the wall has been scrubbed clean, leaving a faint, damp patch, with a fan blowing on it. My sanctuary, my fucking mess, has been sterilized.
“You cleaned up,” I state, the words thick in my mouth. It’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s all my brain can manage.
She straightens up, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement does things to the fabric of her shirt that I’m too hungover to appreciate properly. “I don’t live in filth. And since you apparently do, I changed that.”
I get to my feet, swaying slightly. She doesn’t move, just watches me with those sharp green eyes.
There’s no pity in them. No disgust. It’s an assessment.
Like she’s sizing up a piece of broken furniture she’s been tasked with either fixing or throwing out.
I have a sinking feeling I know which one she’d prefer.
“Get some coffee. There is a fresh pot and two painkillers on the counter next to it. Consider eating some of the casserole I made, but if you intend to throw it back up, aim for the toilet. I’m going down to the gym.”
She turns on her heel, striding towards the front door in a pair of black shorts that show off her killer legs and an arse I could bounce a coin off.
I have no words as she marches out of the apartment, her head held high.
But as first impressions go, hers definitely outdid mine by a million percent.
“Fuck,” I mutter and run my hand through my hair. I stumble towards the kitchen and find everything exactly as she said. A full pot of coffee, steaming and black. Two white pills are sitting beside a tall glass of water. A casserole dish is covered in foil, still warm to the touch.
She’s orchestrated my recovery like a general planning a campaign. My chaotic hangover has been managed and contained. I pop the pills, chasing them with the water before pouring a mug of coffee and downing half of it in one go. The heat scalds my throat, but it’s a welcome punishment.
I stare at the casserole. My stomach growls, a traitorous beast. Eating her food feels like admitting defeat before the war has even begun. But the smell wafting from under the foil is a powerful argument.
Fuck it. I’m starving.
I peel back the foil and grab a fork from the drawer, not bothering with a plate. The first bite of beef and vegetables is a revelation. It’s the best fucking thing I’ve tasted in months, maybe years. It’s real food, not the convenience meals I usually survive on.
This woman walked into my apartment, found me passed out in my own filth, cleaned the entire place, and then cooked a meal fit for a king. She didn’t scream, cry, or lecture me. Or even back out.
She handled it. Handled me. The thought is more sobering than the coffee. My father didn’t just sell me off. He bought me a goddamn warden, and she’s already running the prison.
I scowl at the casserole, even while shoving more into my mouth. She can’t change me. She won’t. No one can erase the thirty years of disappointment that I have grown into.
Throwing the fork in the sink, I fling the foil back on the pot and make my way to the shower. It’s time for the ritual because I’ll be fucking damned twice if she walks back in here to find me at the bottom of the next bottle of whisky.
I hesitate.
Am I not falling right into her trap by thinking that?
“Fuck this shit,” I mumble and strip off, leaving my clothes where I drop them.
Ciara seems so fucking interested in tidying up, she can tidy up this as well.
The freezing water is a familiar shock, a penance I pay to the gods of hangovers.
I stand under the spray, letting it wash away the grime and the last dregs of the whisky fog.
The petty act of leaving my clothes on the floor feels childish now, a pissing contest with a woman who probably wouldn’t even flinch.
She’d just pick them up, launder them, and fold them, another mess of mine to be tidied and put away.
I shut off the water, grab a towel, and wrap it around my hips. I stalk into the bedroom. I look around but see no signs of her. Moving to the guest room, I see signs of her in there. Flinging open the closet, her clothes are neatly hung up and folded. She has moved in.
With a sneer, I walk across the hall to my bedroom, and I pull on a pair of jeans and a black tee.
I run a hand over my jaw, the rasp of stubble a reminder of how much of a fucking wreck I was when she found me.
The silence in the apartment is heavy, charged.
It’s cleaner, smells better, but it’s no longer mine.
Without a second thought, I grab my keycard and throw on a pair of running shoes.
I leave the penthouse, getting the elevator and stabbing the button for the gym level.
Now that I can think clearly, Ciara and I need to have a chat about what the fuck this is and the boundaries she will not cross with me.
When the doors slide open, I step out and push open the door that leads to the apartment building gym. Through the glass wall, I see her bent over, doing stretches. There is a cluster of men in there, which isn’t unusual, but they are all staring at her arse.
A possessive rage, hot and immediate, coils in my gut. These pricks are looking at her like she is a piece of meat on display.
I shove the gym door open, letting it bang against the wall. The sound cracks through the quiet hum of treadmills and the clank of weights. Every head snaps in my direction. The pack of wolves staring at Ciara freezes, their smirks sliding off their faces when they see me.
She doesn’t even look up. She moves from her stretch into a deep squat, her form perfect, her focus absolute. It’s like we’re not even here. Her back is a straight, disciplined line, and the muscles in her thighs tense with the movement.
I let my gaze drift over the men, one by one.
It’s a slow, deliberate threat. A promise.
My bruised face and split lip help sell the message.
One of them, a beefy lad in a tank top, can’t hold my stare and looks away, suddenly fascinated by the floor.
The others follow, scurrying off to different corners of the gym, suddenly more interested in the equipment than in my fiancée’s arse.
Ciara rises from her squat, finally turning. Her green eyes meet mine across the room. There’s no surprise, no gratitude for my little show of territorial pissing. Just that same, cool assessment. The look that says she sees right through me, and she’s not impressed.
“Problem?” she asks, her voice even.
Yeah, I’ve got a fucking problem. And it’s standing right in front of me.
“Get back upstairs,” I growl. “Now.”
She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “No.”
The flat-out refusal catches me off guard.
I stalk toward her, the rubber floor absorbing the sound of my footsteps.
The other men in the gym are frozen, watching the show.
I stop a foot away from her, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off me. She doesn’t so much as blink.
“I’m not asking,” I say, my voice a low snarl.
She picks up a small towel from the bench beside her and dabs at her neck, her movements unhurried, deliberate. It’s a profound act of defiance. “And I’m not obeying. I have twenty minutes left. You can either wait upstairs or join me, but I am finishing my workout.”
My hand shoots out, grabbing her arm just above the elbow.
Her skin is warm, and her muscles are solid beneath my grip.
I expect her to flinch, to show a flicker of fear.
She does neither. Instead, she slowly lowers the towel and turns her gaze from my face down to my hand, then back up.
She doesn’t need to say anything. Her look says it all.
It’s disappointment that I proved her right.
I let it drop and turn to the nearest man. I need to let my frustration out somehow, and might as well set some ground rules. I grab him by his tee, pulling him downward and bring my knee up into his face with a sickening crunch.
“Look at her again like you want to fuck her, and I’ll rip your fucking dick off, shove it up your arse and pull it out of your mouth,” I snarl.
He whimpers, blood pouring from his nose. He slides to the floor when I let him go, a pathetic heap of bruised ego and broken cartilage. The rest of the gym-goers scatter like rats, leaving a wide, empty space around us.
I turn back to Ciara, expecting to see something on her face. Fear. Shock. Maybe even a flicker of satisfaction that I’d defended her honor, or whatever the fuck this is.
I get nothing.
Her expression is as placid as a still lake. She picks up a twenty-kilo kettlebell and begins a set of swings, her movements fluid and powerful, as if I’m not even here. As if I didn’t just break a man’s nose five feet away from her.
“Is the show over?” she asks on an exhale, her eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. “Because you’re distracting me.”
The rage that had been a hot, satisfying burn just a second ago turns to ice in my veins.
“We’re leaving,” I say, my voice tight.
“You’re leaving,” she corrects, not missing a single swing. “I told you. I have eighteen minutes left.”
She’s dismissing me. After I just put on a display of pure O’Neill brutality for her benefit, she’s dismissing me like I’m a fucking nuisance.
I stare at the controlled power in her movements, the straight line of her back, and I know this is going to be a battle of wills.
Hers is strong, but it isn’t unbreakable.
It’s time to assert some dominance to make up for my weak start.
I plant my feet, arms crossed, glaring at her as she finishes her reps.
It doesn’t faze her one bit. Nor does she put on a show for me. It’s like I’m not even there. But I will be fucked if I back down now.