4. Lorcan
Lorcan
My new bride marches down the church steps ahead of me like she's fleeing a burning building.
I take my time, studying her.
She's pretty. Prettier than I expected. Big brown eyes, a few freckles dotting her cheeks, a stubborn little chin. But there's a tightness to her, a weariness. Dark smudges under her eyes.
She looks like she hasn't slept in a year, and there’s a pinch between her brows that hasn't let up once since she walked into the church.
"So," I call, falling into step beside her. "Mrs. O'Rourke."
She flinches at the name, then stops at the bottom of the steps and turns to face me, arms crossed.
"Let's get one thing straight."
"By all means."
"This,” she gestures between us, the gold band catching the light on her finger, "is a business arrangement. I'm not going to pretend it's anything else."
"Wouldn't dream of asking you to."
Her eyes narrow like she was expecting a fight and doesn't know what to do without one.
I can't help it. I reach out and, with one finger, tap the little crease between her brows. "You know, if you're not careful, this is going to set permanently.”
She jerks back like I've burned her. "Excuse me?"
"The frown line." I wink and flash a cavalier grin. "I bet I could smooth that right out for you.”
Her mouth drops open. Then it snaps shut, and her whole face goes hard.
“I just married a complete stranger. Traded like a used car." Her voice climbs. "And you expect me to smile?"
"Fair point." I hold up my hands. “But there’s a bright side.”
"Is there? Is there a bright side?” She's really going now, color rising in her cheeks, and God help me, she's adorable when she's furious. “Pray tell, what’s the bright side to being traded to a mobster like a bargaining chip?"
I consider that. “Is it really so bad? Being married to me?"
I'm not fishing for compliments. Women have never been a problem for me—I've never spent a minute of my adult life chasing them down. I’ve never needed to.
I ask because I’m genuinely wondering what's so terrible here. I've got money. A name that makes people tremble. I'm told I’m not hard on the eyes, and I have an excellent sense of humor.
“I fail to see what’s so dismal about being my wife.”
"You're serious," she says.
"Dead serious."
Something flashes across her face—not anger this time. Something closer to despair, that she quickly swallows. She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter.”
Deciding it’s best to let it go for now, I change the subject. “So, I figure we can pick up your stuff and head to my place.”
Her jaw falls open, and I watch the realization crawl across her face like a shadow. The color drains right back out of her.
“Y-you expect us to live together?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I lean forward and form my words slowly as though speaking to a child. “We. Are. Married. Yes, I expect us to live together.”
Her arms drop to her sides. She considers this for a long moment. “How far is your place from Saint Agatha's? I need to know the address."
I blink. "The church?"
"The daycare."
“Daycare,” I repeat.
“For my youngest,” she says slowly, in an exasperated voice.
“Your… Wait. You have kids?”
She closes her eyes for a second. Takes a breath. When she opens them again, they're steady, and there's steel underneath. “Yes, I have kids. Three of them. Where I go, they go. That's the deal. Nonnegotiable."
I struggle to digest this news.
“You’re nineteen. And you have three kids?”
She ticks them off on her fingers. "Jamie is fourteen. Cara's nine. Oisin is three. They’re my siblings. I’m their legal guardian."
Three kids.
Nobody mentioned three kids.
I must look like I’m about to demand an annulment because her thumb has already gone to her ring like she's ready to twist it off and hand it back right here on the sidewalk.
So that's it. That's why she looks like she needs a full month to catch up on sleep.
"Okay," I say.
Her thumb stills. "What?"
"I said okay." I shrug. "Three kids. Package deal. Got it."
She stares at me, waiting for the catch. When it doesn't come, suspicion floods back in. "They’re first in my life. Before you. Before this arrangement. Before anything."
"Understood."
"And if you—" Her jaw sets. She steps closer, and for a girl who's five-foot-nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet, she manages to look genuinely fierce.
"If you ever lay a hand on any one of them.
" She holds my gaze without flinching. "I will kill you in your sleep.
I mean it. I'll wait until you're snoring, slit your throat from ear to ear, and not feel a second of remorse. "
I study her. Really study her.
This tiny, exhausted girl is threatening to murder a made man from the O'Rourke family in his own bed.
I bark a laugh. I can't help it. It bursts right out of me.
Her eyes flash. "I'm not joking."
"No," I say, still grinning. "I can see that."
"You're insane."
“Undoubtedly.” I offer her my hand, which she pointedly ignores. "You've got yourself a deal, Maeve. Nobody lays a hand on the kids. Anybody who tries goes through me first, and I promise you, no one will get through me.”
She doesn't shake my hand. But her posture eases a bit.
"Come on." I tuck my hands in my pockets and nod toward my car. "Let's go so I can meet the rest of the family."
Three kids and a wife who threatens to murder me before we've even shared our first meal. This marriage is off to a great start.