Chapter 12
Sean
Staring at the ceiling, my stomach clenches. The stew is dying to make a reappearance, but there isn’t a single chance in hell I’m letting it. Not out of any respect for myself, but because I know it will annoy Ciara if I throw up her food.
I’m pussy whipped, and I haven’t even had any pussy.
Groaning, I roll over onto my side and close my eyes. I just want to sleep for the next day and a half and wake up Monday morning to go through with this madness. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, it is.
Sleep, when it finally drags me under, isn’t rest.
It’s a fucking kaleidoscope of terror.
I’m drowning in a vat of whisky, but I can’t swallow a drop.
My father is standing on the rim, laughing, a sound like gravel in a grinder, while Liam counts money that turns into ash in his hands.
Ciara stands over me in her black gym clothes, holding a lit match.
She drops it, and the whole world burns.
I jerk awake, gasping like I've surfaced from deep water. The sheets are sodden with cold sweat, clinging to my skin. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, convinced I'm dying.
But it's not the nightmare that stays with me.
It's her.
The dream shifts, reforming behind my eyelids. Ciara standing over me, but this time she's not holding fire. She's straddling me, those green eyes boring into mine, her thighs clamping around my hips. Those red nails dig into my chest as she moves, and I can almost feel the burn of it.
My cock hardens traitorously, and I curse into the darkness.
She made me stew. She cleaned my apartment. Here I am, three days sober and so desperate I'm getting hard over a woman who probably wants to put a bullet in me herself.
The room is pitch black. I fumble for the water bottle Logan left, knocking it over before my shaking hands manage to grip it. I drain the bottle, crushing it in my grip until it cracks. The water is lukewarm, but it wets my bone-dry mouth.
I’m still here. I’m still sober. The stew is still inside me, a heavy, solid knot in my gut.
She made that food. She came here. She’s cleaning up my mess before we’ve even made it official, before we even know each other.
It pisses me off. It terrifies me. If she thinks she can fix me, she’s going to be the most disappointed woman in Dublin come Monday morning.
With a sigh, I haul my sorry arse out of bed and stagger to the bathroom.
Flicking on the shower, I strip off and bundle the sweaty, disgusting joggers and tee into the laundry basket.
Stepping under the icy cold spray, it knocks the air from my lungs.
I gasp, bracing my hands against the tiles as the water hammers down, washing away the stink of fear and stale sweat.
It doesn’t wash away the craving, though.
That little fucker is burrowed deep in my marrow, scratching to get out.
I stand there until my teeth chatter, until my skin is numb enough to ignore the phantom insects crawling on it, and then I reach for the soap. This is Connor’s idea of purification. As if a few days of cold showers and tepid water can undo a lifetime of being a disappointment.
Turning off the tap, I step out onto the mat, shivering violently.
I scrub a towel over my hair, rough and angry.
Monday. The day I sign my life away for a hundred grand and a truce.
I wonder if she knows what she’s really getting.
Not the heir, not the hero. Just the spare parts held together by spite.
I crawl into bed, naked. One more day. Just one more day in this cage, and then I’m trading it for a gold ring and a wife who probably wants to put a bullet in me herself.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling until morning creeps in like a thief, gray and mean.
My skin feels two sizes too small, and every muscle hums like a wire about to snap.
I don’t move. I count the cracks in the ceiling.
It’s either that or give in to the madness scratching behind my teeth.
A knock. The locks slide, and the door opens a fraction.
“Alive?” Logan.
“Barely,” I croak.
He slips in with another tray. Toast. Tea. Nothing too rich or fancy. He sets it down and doesn’t look me full in the face, like he’s offering me privacy I haven’t earned.
“Eat,” he says. “Then shower.”
“I already showered,” I mutter, because petty is all I’ve got left.
“Good. You stink less. Progress.”
I drag myself upright. My hands don’t shake as hard as yesterday. That feels like a cheating kind of victory. I force down toast. The tea tastes of metal, but it scalds me awake.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
“I enjoy seeing you put food in your ungrateful gob,” he says mildly.
“Nice,” I mumble through a mouthful of toast that goes down a bit easier now my throat is lubricated with tea. He watches me chew like I’m some rare zoo exhibit that finally figured out how to use a tool. When the last crust is gone, I push the plate away and drag a hand over my face.
“Did she really come?” I ask, trying to sound bored and landing somewhere around strangled.
He doesn’t make me clarify who. “She did.”
“And?”
“And nothing. She handed me a pot, told me to tell you to eat it, and asked Connor—politely, because she’s smarter than you—to let me bring it up. She also told me not to tell you she made it.” He tips his head, studying me.
“Didn’t want the credit. How noble,” I scoff.
He rolls his eyes, letting me know how much of a dick I sound like, and ignores that comment. “The barber comes here at eight tomorrow. Tailor at nine. You’re not leaving this room until 10.30 AM.”
I swallow the flare of panic with a swallow of tannic tea. “And if I refuse?”
“You won’t,” he says simply.
The door opens before I can come up with a retort. Connor fills the threshold like a shadow. He takes in the empty plate, the dry cup, my bare chest.
He gives the faintest nod. “Stand.”
“I’m naked.”
“And? I wiped your arse for years, boy. Stand.”
I stand. Reflex. He looks me over as if I’m livestock he’s about to put up for auction.
“You look like hell. Sleep. In the morning, you’ll shower, and you’ll get into the car. Speak when spoken to. Smile. Don’t make me regret letting you breathe.”
“Christ, Dad. Poetry.”
His mouth thins. “Save it for the priest.”
He turns his back, a dismissal, and the door shuts with a final click. The locks slide. It’s amazing how loud that sound is when it cages you.
Logan exhales like he’s been holding his breath since Connor walked in. “You heard him. Sleep.”
“I’m thinking I’ll compose a sonnet instead.” My voice is raw. Sarcasm flakes off it like rust.
“Make it short.” He stands, takes the tray, and pauses at the door. “She didn’t come here to make a show of herself. Take that however you want.” Then he’s gone, and the room is empty again.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling until the cracks turn into constellations. I trace them like a child, inventing names. Fuck You Major. Regret’s Belt. The Drunkard’s Cross. Eventually, exhaustion rolls over me like a dirty tide and drags me under.