Chapter 10 Leila #3
The next few days blur together. Meals, small talk, a strangely domestic routine that feels oddly comforting.
I’ve always liked routine, having something that I can count on, even if school or work or life in general had become insanely stressful, and having one here helps.
Ronan shows me where the gym is, and I spend hours running on the treadmill and doing yoga stretches, burning off my excess energy that way.
I have things from my house now, too—clothes of my own, my favorite winter coat, books and movies that I like, and that helps.
I bundle up one afternoon and go for a walk in the garden, which is pruned back and covered up for the winter, the cobblestone paths snowy and slippery.
With the backdrop of the historic estate and the sprawling snow-covered grounds, it feels like something out of a fairytale.
Ronan has dinner with me, checks on me periodically, chats with me if we pass each other during the day, but he keeps that physical distance.
It doesn’t stop the growing tension, though.
I catch him looking at me occasionally, his eyes lingering a little too long during a meal, and I try not to look at him the same way, but it’s hard.
He’s beautiful, gorgeous in a way that seems unreal, and the longer I’m around him, the more I can’t deny that it’s not just his looks.
I didn’t ever think I would be drawn to a man like him, to strength and power and violence, but I am.
There’s something in me that keeps going back to what he did to Neil, that’s aroused by it, drawn into it like a moth to a flame.
At night, when I’m alone in bed, I can’t keep myself from thinking about him when my hand slides down between my thighs.
And more than once, I’ve thought about the blood on his fingers as I come.
Friday night, a full two weeks after I was taken and a week after Ronan brought me here, he comes up to the library after dinner, where I’m reading by the fire.
He picks out a book of his own, sinking into a comfortable leather armchair, and I’m startled by how normal this feels—the two of us reading side by side in this ridiculously luxurious library.
The room is silent except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink of my wine glass or his whiskey glass as one of us sets it down on the side tables, but I see him looking at me occasionally out of the corner of my eye.
As the minutes tick by, I can feel the air thickening, a tension there that wasn’t there before just by virtue of us being in the same room together, alone, in this all-too-romantic setting.
I try to focus on my book and ignore it.
But it’s impossible. The snow is falling outside, big flakes dusting against the massive windows, the fire is warm and bright, and the most handsome man I’ve ever met is sitting across from me.
I glance up at him, and I feel my body react, my thighs squeezing together as I try not to think about everything we could do. Everything he could teach me.
I drop my book onto my lap. Maybe talking will help dissolve the tension between us. I cast around for something I’m curious about, and finally settle on a question that might annoy him. But that might not be the worst thing in the world, honestly. That might dispel the tension, at least.
“Do you ever regret it?” I ask curiously. “Choosing this life?”
Ronan goes very still. "That's a complicated question."
I shrug. "Most interesting questions are."
He hesitates, reaching for his whiskey glass. "I didn't choose this life, not exactly. I was born into it. It chose me."
"But you could have left, right? Said you didn’t want it? Done something else?”
"Could I have?" He meets my eyes directly. "This isn't something you just walk away from, Leila. There are loyalties, obligations, family ties that go back generations. I inherited more than just money from my father when he handed the reins of Boston over to me. I inherited responsibility for dozens of families, people whose livelihoods depend on the decisions I make. There’s a weight to everything I do.” He pauses, and I think I know what he’s not saying. There are consequences for what he decided to do with me, for me, too. He’s just not telling me about it.
I’m not entirely sure I want to know.
“That seems like it might be lonely,” I say quietly.
Ronan takes a sip of his whiskey. “Yes,” he says finally. “It can be. It can be isolating. But that’s not something you need to worry about.”
Silence falls between us again, the tension unresolved. I get up, needing something to do, and go back to the bookshelves, looking for something else to read. Maybe the book I chose just isn’t holding my attention enough.
After a moment, I hear Ronan speak again. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to run. After what I did to Neil.”
I turn around, my back to the shelves, and look at him. My heart does that odd flip in my chest, seeing him silhouetted in the firelight. My gaze drifts over his face, his forearms, his hands, and I feel my pulse flutter in my throat.
I swallow hard. “I liked it,” I say quietly. “That you killed someone because they hurt me.”
Something unreadable flashes in his eyes. He sets his glass down, closes the book, and puts it on the side table. And then, slowly, he stands up, crossing the room to stand in front of me. It’s only a few strides, but it feels like it takes forever, like I’m watching him move in slow motion.
“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly, looking down at me.
“Why not?” I whisper, and his jaw tightens.
“Because you’re not one of us. That shouldn’t be okay to someone like you. And I don’t want to corrupt you.”
I speak without thinking, the wine warming my blood and his closeness slowing my senses. I can smell the spice of his cologne, and desire builds in my core, everything in me wanting to reach out and pull him closer. “Maybe I’d like it if you did.”
Something in him snaps. I see it—see the heat that darkens his hazel eyes, see his muscles tense as he steps forward, caging me in against the shelves. He braces one hand next to my head, his other hand coming up to touch my chin, tilting it up.
And then, before I can even take a breath, his mouth is on mine.
It’s not my first kiss, but it might as well be. The others have been clumsy, messy, high school boys or drunk college students who turned me off with the sloppy way they kissed. This is something else… something that I’ve never experienced before.
His mouth is hard against mine, firm and hot, exploring my lips as I reach up to touch his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, taste whiskey on his lips, and I feel desire flood me, an aching need building that demands to be satisfied.
For a moment, everything else falls away.
The danger, the complicated circumstances that brought us together, the fact that this is probably the worst idea either of us has ever had.
There's just this—his mouth on mine, his hand still touching my chin as he kisses me, the way he makes a hungry sound low in his throat when I part my lips for him.
His tongue brushes against mine, and I moan, arching into him as I feel something thick and hard press against my thigh. His hands drop to my hips, holding me to him, his grinding against me for a brief moment as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants me.
And then he wrenches himself away from me like I’ve burned him, staggering back as he runs a shaky hand through his hair.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, his accent thick and his voice rough. “Christ, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I’m frozen in place, unable to move, a pulse beating between my thighs and my entire body an aching mess of need. “Ronan—”
“I’m sorry,” he bites out again, and then he turns on his heel, storming out. The door slams behind him, making me flinch, and I reach up to touch my lips, still warm from his kiss.
I didn’t want him to stop. I’d have let him keep going, let him fuck me right up against the shelves if he wanted, I realize. Heat floods me at the thought, and I want to go after him, to insist that we finish what we started. To tell him that I’m not sorry.
But I don’t.
What the fuck am I doing? I stare at the closed door.
This isn’t some guy I met at a party or a bar.
This isn't a normal situation where attraction can lead to more, and there aren’t a hundred reasons why it shouldn’t.
This is Ronan O'Malley—a man who tortured and killed someone just days ago.
A man whose hands were literally stained with blood.
He’s a mob boss. The head of a crime family. The idea hits me suddenly, the full weight of what that means. I'm potentially having romantic feelings for a crime boss. The absurdity of it, the sheer impossibility, makes my head spin.
This is dangerous.
This can’t happen.
And I can’t let myself wish that it would happen again.