Chapter 44 Ciara
Ciara
“St. Kitts.”
Sean glances over at me, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he shifts gears.
“I promised, didn’t I?” he rumbles, his hand leaving the gearstick to find my thigh. His grip is warm, possessive, anchoring me to the seat.
“You did. And I intend to collect.” I cover his hand with mine, lacing our fingers together. “White sand. Blue water. No bloodshed.”
He frowns, and I know this honeymoon is going to be in the distant future, but that’s fine. He has a place here with his family now, and that matters more than me topping up my tan on a beach in the Caribbean.
“Maybe—”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I cut him off. He doesn’t have to explain. He doesn’t need to. I get it. It was a pipe dream for when this was over, and he was still finding his place.
He smiles and squeezes my thigh. “You are the most perfect arranged wife a man could ask for.”
I snort. “I’d hope so. I also hope we’re past the arranged part.”
“Connor said it was matchmaking.”
“I can live with that.”
The city skyline looms ahead, gray and imposing, but it doesn’t look like a cage anymore. It looks like a playground. We carved our space in it, sealed it with a bullet and a handshake from the devil himself.
Sean navigates the Ford into the underground lot, the engine sputtering a final, dying protest as he kills it next to his pristine Bentley.
The contrast is almost comical—road dust and grim necessity parked beside polished indifference—but I wouldn’t trade the grit under my fingernails for all the pristine leather in the world. We earned the dirt.
“Home sweet fortress,” he mutters, climbing out.
I meet him at the trunk, and without a word, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. We walk to the elevator like we own the building, the city, and everything beneath it. Maybe we do. Or at least, we own the parts that matter.
As the doors slide shut, sealing us in the mirrored box, Sean turns to me. The harsh overhead light catches the sharp angle of his jaw, the clear, winter-blue intensity of his eyes. There’s no haze there. No shadow of the bottle. Just a man who knows exactly who he is and what he’s capable of.
“You know,” he says, his voice low and vibrating against my ribs. “Being the Enforcer’s wife comes with risks.”
I reach up, smoothing the fabric over the hard muscle of his chest. “Good thing I like risks.”
He grins, a wicked, boyish thing that makes my breath hitch. “Mine.”
“Always,” I whisper against his mouth.
He presses me back against the mirrors, his hands on the button of my jeans. I don’t stop him. I want him. I want him right here, right now, and if anyone sees us, then so be it. They will know he belongs to me and that I am his, body and soul.
He pushes my jeans down my thighs, my gun clattering to the floor, and releases his cock. My legs are trapped by the denim as he rubs the head of his cock over my clit.
“You’re always so wet for me,” he groans, teasing us both.
A whimper catches in my throat, breathless and jagged. The friction is blinding, a sharp spike of pleasure that cuts through the lingering adrenaline of the kill. I’m completely exposed, my thighs trembling against the denim shackles around my knees, but I’ve never felt more powerful.
“Look at you,” he growls against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. “So fucking responsive.”
I dig my nails into the back of his neck, and he makes a noise that sounds like a whimper of pure lust.
After that, he doesn’t wait any longer. With a rough shove of his hips, he buries himself inside me.
My head falls back against the glass with a dull thud, my hands dropping lower so my nails can dig into his arms to anchor myself.
The sensation is overwhelming—the fullness of him, the cold mirror against my back, the heat of his hands branding my hips.
We are wild, disheveled, and beautiful in our brutality. He isn’t the spare anymore, and I’m not just a bargaining chip. We are the storm that Dublin isn’t ready for.
“Say it,” he commands, driving into me with a rhythm that threatens to shatter the glass.
“Yours,” I gasp, matching his pace as best I can with my limited movement. “I’m yours, Sean.”
The elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal our hallway, but neither of us stops. Let the world see. We earned this. We earned everything.
He doesn’t falter. The hallway stretches out before us, cool and silent, but Sean keeps his rhythm, driving into me as if he’s trying to imprint his soul onto mine.
The open doors expose us, framing our desperation, but I don’t shy away.
I arch into him, meeting the brutal cadence of his hips until the friction sparks into a white-hot blaze that consumes us both.
The doors slide shut again when I cry out as the climax hits, sharp and sudden, shattering the last of my composure.
Sean follows me over the edge seconds later, his groan guttural and raw against my neck as he spills into me, shuddering with the force of his release.
He holds me there, pinned against the metal frame, until our breathing slows from frantic gasps to heavy, synchronized exhales.
When he finally pulls back, his blue eyes are dark with possessiveness. He helps me straighten my clothes with hands that are surprisingly steady, though his skin is slick with sweat. He shoves my gun down the back of my jeans with a wicked smile.
“Home,” he rasps, the word sounding less like a location and more like a victory chant.
“Home,” I agree, leaning into his touch as he brushes a stray hair from my face.
He stabs the button to open the doors again, but as he does, his phone rings. He shoots me an apologetic look and pulls it out to answer it.
“Yeah?”
I can hear Connor’s voice clear as day on the other side. “You need to go and see the Russians,” he clips out. “They want a face-to-face with the man who shot a number of their men to claim that ledger.”
We exchange a look, but Sean isn’t worried. If anything, he appears to be relishing the thought.
“Where?”
“The old cannery on the Liffey,” Connor replies, his voice tinny through the speaker but heavy with command.
“Half an hour. Don’t keep them waiting. They want to see the new dog that bit them.
I don’t need to tell you to be careful, or to not let them threaten you.
The ceasefire will be null and void if they do, and they know that.
All merry hell will rain down on them if they so much as pull a gun on you. ”
“Noted.” Sean hangs up, sliding the phone into his pocket.
The lust that glazed his eyes moments ago hardens into something colder, sharper.
The transition is seamless, terrifying, and entirely necessary.
He isn’t just my husband right now; he’s the O’Neill family’s weapon, sharpened and ready to draw blood.
“The cannery,” he repeats to me, his hand finding the back of his neck, rubbing the tension there. “Looks like our celebration is cut short.”
I straighten my shirt. “It’s not cut short. It’s just evolving. Let’s go.”
“Ciara.” His voice is a warning, low and rough. “This isn’t a hit from a distance. This is a sit-down with men who carve people up for sport. You’re staying here.”
I look down at his hand on my arm, then up to those winter-blue eyes. “Connor said they want a face-to-face with the man who shot a number of their men. That man was me.”
His eyes flash dangerously, but he knows I’m not wrong. He lets go of my arm and silently presses the button for the underground lot.
“Better,” I murmur.
“Watch it, wife,” he growls. “If they even so much as look at you wrong, I’m causing an all-out war.”
“They won’t. They know who they are dealing with. They just want to kick the tires and make sure we know they exist.”
“Well, they will fucking know we exist once we walk in there.”
When the doors open to the garage, Sean bypasses the nondescript Ford without a second glance. He heads straight for the matte black Bentley, and grabs the key from the front tire. We needed to be invisible to kill Ryan, but for the Russians, we need to be undeniable. We need to be O’Neills.
He unlocks it, and I slide into the plush leather seat, the scent of expensive car wax and Sean’s lingering cologne doing little to settle the adrenaline still spiking in my blood.
I pull the SIG from the back of my waistband, checking the safety before placing it in the door pocket within easy reach.
My shoulder throbs as a dull reminder of the last time we walked into a room full of enemies, but I push the pain aside.
“If they try anything,” Sean says, peeling out of the garage with a growl of the engine that echoes off the concrete walls, “get behind me. No arguments, Ciara.”
“I’ll be right beside you,” I counter, staring out of the window. “That’s the deal.”
He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh.
The cannery is in the docklands, a skeletal remnant of industry.
As the rusted structure looms into view, flanked by two black SUVs that definitely don’t belong to fishermen, I feel a cold calm settle over me.
This is the life I chose. This is the man I chose.
I touch Sean’s hand on my thigh. “Let’s give them a performance they won’t forget.”