Chapter 17 Ciara
Ciara
Ibrace my palms against the cool tile and breathe, steady and slow. My pulse riots anyway. Heat still hums low and treacherous, shamefully alive in the place he just owned like it was made for him.
A second passes.
Two.
Then I launch forward, pulling on the door right when a middle-aged man I recognize from my dad’s social circle tries to open it. He stumbles and his hand lands on my breast. I gasp sharply, and he yanks his hand back like it’s been burned, his gaze horrified.
Before I can utter a word, or he can stammer an apology, Sean swoops in like the fucking cavalry and shoves Patrick’s shoulder from the side, forcing him back. “Don’t ever touch her again,” he growls.
“It was an accident,” Patrick says, glaring at Sean.
Two apex predators are sizing each other up, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the display of testosterone.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sean says in a tone that has more control than I’ve heard from him yet.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking Sean’s hand. “Like he said, an accident.” I pull on him to get him to move before he picks a fight with one of Ireland’s toughest men.
Sean moves, slowly, but he doesn’t take his gaze off Patrick.
“You have a nasty habit of walking out on me,” I state, mostly to get his attention away from the impending brawl.
The men’s room door closes behind Patrick, forcing Sean’s gaze to me, or be left glaring a hole into the wood.
“You have a nasty habit of making me,” he says.
I give him a curious look. “By doing what exactly?”
“Existing,” he snaps.
“Wow, okay. So we are going to blame Ciara for your attitude. Nice gaslighting, arsehole.”
He glares at me.
“Own it,” I say, “like the fucking O’Neill hard man that you are.”
The side of his mouth curves up in a small smile. “You think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?”
“I think you’re a man who hates being told what to do,” I counter. “And I think you hate that I’m the only one brave enough to do it. Walk out on me again, and it will be the last time.”
He crowds me, staring down at me, trying to intimidate me, but he knows it’s for show. “Threats, wife. Aren’t you precious.”
The fact that he makes me sound cute riles up my temper, but that is exactly why he’s doing it. “And aren’t you pathetic,” I say and turn to walk away.
His hand snakes around my upper arm, halting me before I’ve even moved two paces.
He tugs me back until my chest bumps his, the impact jarring the breath from my lungs. “Careful, stór. You’re confusing restraint with weakness. Next time, I might not stop at my hand.”
Heat flares in my cheeks, traitorous and sharp, but I hold his gaze, refusing to let him see the way my pulse jumps. “There won’t be a next time if you keep acting like a feral dog. Right now, my family is the only thing keeping the gun from your head.”
His eyes narrow. He knows I’m right. That’s the problem with Sean; he’s smart enough to know the dimensions of the cage he’s in, but wild enough to rattle the bars until they break or he does. “You aren’t in control,” he says, echoing his words from the car.
“You keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.”
“The only thing that helps me sleep is a good session with an expensive Scotch.”
Our gazes burn with fire. His full of danger, and mine full of fear that he’s right.
“Challenge accepted,” I purr, doing the only thing I can to get his mind off the booze, and drop my hand to his cock. He stiffens almost immediately as I squeeze him.
He growls when I step back, lowering my hand. His hand clamps around my wrist, and he moves it back. “Don’t be a fucking tease, Ciara.”
“Don’t walk away from me again.”
Something shifts in his gaze, and I fucking hate it. He has somehow stripped me down to my bare components and seen what I never wanted him, or anyone, to see.
He reaches out with his other hand and cups my face gently. “I won’t. I won’t walk away from you, Ciara.”
The sob catches in my throat, and I disguise it as a sneer.
But he knows, and it shows.
And I hate it.
“Let’s go. Our dads will be wondering where we are,” I say, averting my gaze.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he tucks it securely into the crook of his arm, a solid, warm anchor in a sea of uncertainty. I hate the heat of him against my side almost as much as I hate the traitorous flutter in my chest his promise caused.
I won’t walk away.
Words are cheap, especially from a man who can’t promise me he won’t drink again, but for a terrifying second, I want to believe them. I shove that weakness into a steel box and weld it shut.
The next terrifying second brings a harsh truth. I have never asked him to promise me he won’t drink again. I don’t have that right. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He has to do it because he wants to, not because anyone else wants him to.
We step back into the ballroom with an unspoken truce lingering like a bad smell.
The noise hits us first—the clink of crystal, the murmur of polite lies, the string quartet sawing away at something classical and boring.
Heads turn. Whispers ignite like wildfire.
They’re looking for the cracks, for my tears or Sean’s give-away sway.
I lift my chin, depicting nothing but bored perfection.
Our fathers are waiting at the head table like two vultures perched on a carcass. Donal’s eyes scan me for damage, while Connor dissects his son.
“Everything okay?” Connor asks.
“Perfect,” I say with a smile and make a show of arranging my dress as I sit.
Sean sits next to me, and it feels like we are balancing on a knife-edge. I have never wanted an event to end as much as this one.
As we sit through another speech from some cousin of Sean’s, I jump slightly when Sean leans over and whispers in my ear. “Can we please fucking leave?”
I stifle my giggle, feeling Connor’s eyes on me. “Let’s go,” I murmur and take his hand for support as we both rise.
Heads turn our way, the cousin falters slightly, but then keeps going, Connor glowers at us, but Donal gives a swift nod of approval.
I take it and run with it.
“Go,” I say to Sean, and he moves, pulling me along with him as I lift my dress and jog after him.
We burst through the heavy double doors and into the lobby, ignoring the startled looks of the concierge and a family of American tourists gaping at the bride hiking up her couture gown. Sean is a force of nature, moving with a singular focus toward the exit.
We exit into the late afternoon to find the Rolls still parked up, the driver already waiting. I wonder if Connor had him on standby to ship Sean off if he somehow managed to get pissed at a dry wedding. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Sean doesn’t wait for the driver to open the door. He pulls it open and steps aside to let me in first. I don’t dally. I practically dive in and scoot across, dragging the dress with me as Sean slides in and slams the door. “Home,” he says. “Make it quick.”
The driver nods and peels away from the curb, faster than this sedate car has probably ever gone before.
I let out the laugh I was holding onto, releasing the tension that had built up with it. Sean looks at me like I’ve gone mad for a moment before he joins in.
For this moment, we are just two people, thankful to have escaped a nightmare function we were both stuck at.
Our laughter dies down as reality crashes back in, and we retreat to our separate sides of the back seat, an awkward silence falling over us.
He is the first to break it.
“You cleared the place out, didn’t you?”
His voice is rough, scraping against the quiet hum of the engine. He doesn’t look at me; his gaze is fixed on the partition. His tone borders on a plea, as if he is hoping I took the initiative because he knows he will fall at the first hurdle.
“Yes,” I confirm. He opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. “The stash in your coat, and the bathroom.”
“There’s a bottle—”
“In the boot? Not anymore.”
“Did you find the one—”
“Under the kitchen sink? Bold. I’m surprised Millie didn’t find it.”
“Behind the Picasso,” he says, his expression turning to one of dread as I stare at him.
“Yes,” I lie, cursing myself. How did I not find that? “All gone.”
“Liar,” he hisses. “It’s behind the Monet.”
“Got that one too,” I say steadily.
His gaze bores into mine. He isn’t sure whether I’m telling the truth. And now it’s going to be a race when we get back to the apartment to see who reaches it first.
I’m not going to lie. This dress puts me at a disadvantage.
Surreptitiously, I remove my heels under the voluminous dress as the tension ricochets around the car. I move my hand to the side zipper and pull it down. The buttons are going to be an issue, but if I pull hard enough, they should pop enough for me to get out of this blasted hindrance.
The only problem is the keycard. It’s in my clutch, which is resting on the floor where it must’ve been knocked when I crawled onto Sean’s lap earlier.
There is no two ways about this. I have to get up there before he does, and I’m doing it fucking naked because I don’t have a choice.
Hopefully, that will shock him enough to give me a head start.
Remind me again why I didn’t wear any panties… Oh, yeah. I’m always prepared.