Chapter 9
Ciara
Why am I worried? I shouldn’t give a single fuck, and yet, I’m pacing this penthouse apartment like a lioness, anxious, and watching the ticking clock like it’s going to explode.
The memory of his hands on my arm in the gym flashes—rough, certain, possessive.
I shake it off. That's just adrenaline. Biology.
It means nothing. But my body doesn't seem to agree, because heat pools low in my belly at the thought of his hands on me again.
Properly this time. I curse under my breath and force myself to sit.
Sean has been gone for two days. Forty-eight hours since I last saw him walk out of the gym. Is he dead? Is he drunk in a ditch somewhere? In some woman’s bed?
I hate the feeling of possessive rage that descends when I think about another woman fucking my fiancé. Gritting my teeth, I turn as the front door opens and I swallow, straightening up and remaining perfectly still.
The urge to yell and scream and kick him in his nuts is dulled when I see it isn’t Sean.
“Ciara,” Connor O’Neill says, although I’ve never met him. “You look lovely.”
“Where is he?” I demand, moving forward, but stopped halfway by the enormous white leather couch.
Connor closes in, but remains on the other side of the barrier.
“He is with me.”
Those four words send a rush of unwanted relief through me. It’s a traitor, a weakness I shove down before it can reach my face. I straighten my spine, my expression hardening into a mask of polite inquiry.
“With you,” I repeat, my voice flat. “And you didn’t see fit to let me know until now?”
Connor moves around the couch, his presence filling the sterile space. He’s a bigger man than my father, broader in the shoulders, with an aura of violence that’s more refined, less raw. “He needed… supervision. A period of adjustment before the wedding.”
“A detox,” I state, not asking.
His eyes, the same piercing blue as his son’s, narrow slightly. “The boy has his demons. We’re casting them out. On Monday, he will be at the altar, sober.”
Sober.
The word slaps me back into reality, and I harden my heart against him. “I appreciate you taking the time to come here and inform me.”
His gaze bores into mine at my polite tone. “You deserved to know.”
“Thank you.”
We size each other up, even though he is the bigger predator, and we both know it. Hell, the entire world can see it, but I am not the feeble little missus who will sit back and be treated with disrespect.
“I am impressed by you, Ciara,” he says after a few moments. “I expected more…” He narrows his eyes.
“Histrionics?” I help out dryly.
He snorts. “Quite. I chose well.”
I grit my teeth and force a smile. “Is he… is he okay?”
He inhales deeply before letting out. “He is angry. He will live.”
The words are a comfort and a curse. He’s alive. He’s being controlled. I nod, a single, sharp gesture of understanding. “Thank you for letting me know.”
He watches me, his gaze unblinking, searching for a crack in my composure.
I offer him none. I am a placid lake, and my fury is a monster that lives in the depths, unseen.
He has taken my future husband and locked him away like a misbehaving child.
He is reminding me who is truly in charge.
Not Sean. Not my father. Certainly not me. But him.
“You’re a good match for him,” he says, and it sounds less like a compliment and more like a diagnosis. “He needs a firm hand.”
“I am not his keeper,” I counter, my voice deceptively soft.
A flicker of something—not quite a smile, but a tightening around his eyes—is my only reward. He turns for the door. “The car will collect you at eleven on Monday. Be ready.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence he leaves in his wake is heavier than before.
I walk to the window and look down at the city lights. I am not marrying the drunken mess I found on the couch. I am marrying the man Connor O’Neill forges in a cage over five days. A man stripped of his vices, raw and resentful. I wonder which version will be more dangerous.
There is a soft knock on the door, and I turn towards it. Striding over, I open it, expecting Connor, even though he entered without permission not five minutes ago. Instead, I see nothing but a big white box on the doorstep.
I sigh heavily and kick the lid off with the toe of my boot.
“Can’t even pick out a dress myself,” I mutter and bend down to grip it and haul it out of the box.
It’s pretty, big and white, with an off-the-shoulder design, covered in delicate lace.
I drag the yards of silk and tulle into the guest room and hang the gown on the back of the door.
It’s a ghost of a bride I will never be, a fairytale costume for a horror story.
It’s a declaration. Connor O’Neill is staging this entire production, right down to my wardrobe. He’s bought and paid for a perfect, docile bride, and this dress is my uniform.
I run a hand over the intricate beading on the bodice. It’s cold and hard under my fingers, just like the deal my father made. I wonder if Sean knows. If he’s sitting in a room somewhere, shaking and sweating and hating me for my part in his imprisonment.
Part of me doesn’t care, but the other part sneaks up on me and worries about what he will do on Monday when he sees me.
Three days and counting.
Making a snap decision, I grab my phone and call for a cab to take me back home, and head out to wait at the curb. I need to see Fiachra, I need to relax and be away from Sean O’Neill’s world, even if it is only for a few hours.
The ride back to my father’s estate is a silent retreat.
The city’s sharp angles and gray concrete bleed into the rolling green of the countryside, and I feel a knot in my shoulders unclench.
This is my world. Land that has belonged to the O’Byrnes for generations.
It’s a different kind of prison, but it’s the one I know.
When the car pulls up the long drive, I don’t go to the main house. I head straight for the stables.
Fiachra is waiting. He pushes his head over the stall door, his dark eyes soft as he nickers a greeting.
I press my forehead against his, my fingers sinking into the coarse silk of his mane.
Here, there are no expectations. No deals.
No drunken fiancés or calculating fathers-in-law.
There is only the quiet, powerful presence of this animal who trusts me completely.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, my voice rough.
I saddle him, the familiar ritual grounding me.
Out in the fields, I let him run through the dark night.
The wind bites at my cheeks, whipping my hair around me.
I’m not dressed for this, but I don’t care.
With every thunderous beat of his hooves against the damp earth, I feel a piece of the tension break away.
He is power and freedom, and for this brief, stolen moment, he is mine.
I am not Ciara O’Neill, the bride-to-be.
I am just a girl on a horse, racing the storm that is coming for me on Monday.