Chapter 21
Ciara
Pissed doesn’t even cover how I’m feeling right now as I scrub off sweat, cum and splats of blood from my skin under a less than ideal torrent of water.
Sean’s reasoning is… well, reasonable. It would be foolish to get drunk every night and have a gun or knife under your pillow.
Mine, of course, was in the fucking guest room where I’ve been sleeping for almost a week.
Can’t say I remembered to bring it with me while Sean was ravaging me last night for hours on end.
“Always prepared,” I scoff, scrubbing my nipples until they are raw to try and erase that creep’s touch.
“Always prepared until I actually needed it.” I shudder and snap off the tap with more force than necessary.
I’m fine. I’m not thinking about being assaulted in my own home.
My own home. I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
I towel off roughly, already moving through the bedroom to the guest room to pull on a pair of black yoga pants, a tight sports bra and an oversized tee.
Sean is dressed only in sweats as he paces in front of the windows, talking quietly into his phone, his posture stiff and telling. He is talking to his father, that much is clear.
My phone rings, where it is still shoved in the clutch on the kitchen counter. Moving over, I grab it and look at the screen. Dad.
Shit.
Already?
Of course he knows. He probably had his own men watching the watchers. “It’s handled,” I say, my voice clipping the words short as I answer it. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing a tremor.
“Is it?” Donal asks, skepticism dripping from the two words. “Because if O’Neill can’t keep his own house clean, I’ll send the boys in to sanitize it for him.”
“I said it’s handled,” I snap, my gaze drifting toward the bedroom where three corpses are currently ruining the feng shui. “The intruders have been neutralized.”
“Neutralized,” he repeats, tasting the word. “By whom?”
“By us.”
“Us?” he spits out. “You mean O’Neill, right?”
“No, I mean us. He took out two, I handled the other. You didn’t raise a pussy, and I’m not about to start now just because some fucker now calls himself my husband.” I glance at the fucker, who is staring at me with an amused expression.
There’s a beat of silence on the line, heavy with the weight of unsaid threats.
“Good,” Donal finally grunts. “But tell him this: if a single hair on your head is out of place when I see you next, not even his father will be able to save him.”
“Noted,” I say. “Goodbye, Dad. We’ve got this.”
I hang up because there is nothing else to say. At least, I don’t have anything else to say. I toss the phone onto the kitchen island, the slide of metal on marble a harsh sound in the quiet aftermath. Sean ends his call, his eyes dark and unreadable as they track the movement.
“Let me guess,” he says, his voice a low rumble that scrapes against my frayed nerves. “Donal wants my head on a pike.”
“Only if you let me get damaged.”
He nods, accepting it. His knuckles are split open again, raw and bloody, after the brutality he unleashed minutes ago. “Cleaners are five minutes away. Connor is… pissed.”
I blink. “Pissed? Is that it? His men got taken out by, from what I can see, a two-bit crew from the rough side of Dublin, for fuck’s sake.” My hands are shaking, and it’s not with anger now. The adrenaline has worn off. “Who else do you owe?” I ask this quietly. I need to know.
“No one,” he says bitterly. “Liam and Connor have sorted it.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Are you sure about that?”
He nods stiffly. But I’m not buying it. There is a secret hidden somewhere.
“If you are putting my life at risk by lying to me, I will take care of you myself,” I say, locking gazes with him.
He doesn’t flinch. He steps into my personal space, towering over me, radiating that intoxicating mix of violence and exhaustion.
“There is no one else,” he says. The words are firm, but there’s a shadow behind his eyes, a flicker of something that isn’t quite the truth. Before I can dissect it, the intercom buzzes, jarring and loud in the tension-filled room.
“Cleaners,” he grunts, stepping back. The loss of his heat is immediate. He heads for the hallway, pausing only to look back at me, his expression unreadable. “Get your shoes on, Ciara. We can’t stay here while they work. The smell of bleach will give you a headache.”
I watch him walk away, his shoulders tense. He’s deflecting, burying whatever truths he’s keeping under layers of O’Neill armor. I pause in the doorway of the guest room, and I look down at my bare feet, then at the dead man on the floor who thought I was an easy target.
Sean might have secrets, but he will learn that I have patience. I’ll find out who else holds his leash, and when I do, I’ll be the one to cut it. Or hang him with it.
I turn and head for the closet to find my running shoes. I have a feeling today isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Perched on the edge of the bed, I see the cleaners stroll past as if this is just any other day. I guess to them, it is.
“Come,” Sean says, holding out his hand. He has pulled on a tee, hoodie and some black running shoes.
“What about a shower?” I say to him absently as I rise and grab a small backpack, which I load up with essentials. Wallet, phone, gun.
“Later,” he says. “We need to move.”
I nod and stop talking. There is nothing to say until we walk past the dead guard, one single shot to the head where he sat, which means he was probably sleeping on the job anyway. The elevator doors slide open, and we get in.
“Where are we going?”
“Connor’s,” comes his short reply.
Figured. Where else would an O’Neill hole up after being nearly executed in his apartment?
There is an uneasy pause, then he asks, “Do you want to go to your dad’s?”
I frown. “Do you want me to go to my dad’s?”
Crunch time. He can use this as an excuse to get me out of his hair.
“No.” The word drops like a stone between us. He doesn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the stainless steel doors reflecting our disheveled states. “You’re my wife. You stay with me.”
A knot in my chest loosens. It’s not affection—it’s territory. But right now, being claimed feels safer than being discarded, so he can lose himself at the bottom of a bottle.
The elevator dings, signaling our arrival at the lobby. The doors slide open to reveal the pristine lobby. Finn is nowhere in sight. Probably fired or quit after Sean laid into him.
Sean keeps a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the waiting black SUV. The air outside is cold, biting through my thin tee, but I don’t shiver. I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.
I slide into the leather interior, and Sean climbs in beside me.
As the car pulls away, merging into the gray Dublin traffic, he stares out the window.
He didn’t send me away. He kept me close.
Whether that’s to protect me or to punish himself remains to be seen, but as I look at his bloodied knuckles resting on his knee, I know one thing for certain: the war has officially begun, and we’re on the same side of the trenches. For better or for worse.