Chapter 18 #4
“This evening. The jet takes off at seven. We’ll leave here about six, maybe a little earlier. Pack whatever you want to bring with you, but if there’s anything you or your mother need or want once we’re there, we’ll get it. Don’t worry if you forget something.”
Leila nods, biting her lip. “Okay.” She looks back at the tea tin for a long moment, and I assume I’m being dismissed, that she’s lost in thought now. But as I turn to go, she speaks, stopping me in my tracks. "Ronan?"
I pause, looking back at her. "Yeah?"
"Your dad—is he okay with this? With me being there?"
I think about the argument we just had, about the way Padraigh looked at me like I was signing all our death warrants. "He'll adjust."
It's not entirely a lie. My father might not like it, but he'll respect my decision. I have to believe that, after making me the head of this family, he’ll allow me to make the calls. At least long enough to see how this one plays out.
If it all goes wrong, I have no idea what will happen then. I can’t imagine it ends with me still at the head of the O’Malley family, but if I fail to protect Leila, if Rocco manages to take her or kill her, I won’t want to be.
Failing at this will crush me. I can’t allow it to happen. Which is the primary reason I can’t afford to let Leila distract me—for her good and mine.
But as I look at Leila for another moment before turning away, I can't shake the feeling that Padraigh might be right about one thing: I might be making the same mistake I made with Siobhan, just in a different way.
No, I tell myself as I head to my own room to pack what I’ll need for the time I’m planning to stay at the estate.
This isn’t the same as Siobhan. Not in the slightest. I’m not neglecting Leila.
I’m not letting her out of my sight, and when I do, I’ll make sure that the men watching her know the consequences of failure.
Rocco isn’t going to lay a finger on her.
By six, we’re all in one of the SUVs, the luggage loaded and the driver taking us to the tarmac where my family’s private jet is waiting. Claire gets into the SUV first, Leila following her, and she gives me a curious look as I climb in.
“You’re doing an awful lot for us, Mr. O’Malley,” she says, her expression unreadable. “More than most would.”
“You’re family now,” I say simply, sliding into my seat. “My mother-in-law. And call me Ronan, please.”
“Ronan.” She pushes up the sleeves of the soft-looking cardigan she’s wearing. “Leila says we’re going to Ireland. Because of the attacks?”
“You’ll be safer there.” I take a breath. “Leila and I have discussed it. And I don’t want to part the two of you right now.”
“I appreciate that.” She gives me a narrow look. “You know, Leila still hasn’t told me what it is that you do. What might have prompted such… violence.”
“Mom,” Leila chides gently. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? I don’t want to discuss it right now.”
“Maybe I should explain—” I start to say, but Leila shoots me a look that’s so much of a wife that something jolts in my chest.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she repeats firmly, and I nod.
I see the expressions on both my wife's and my mother-in-law’s faces change when we reach the tarmac and they see the waiting jet. “A private jet?” Leila breathes, her mouth falling open. “I never thought I’d take a trip on something like this.”
“Well, now you’ll get the chance.” I slide out as the driver opens the door, helping both Leila and Claire down before we walk toward the waiting aircraft. I hear Leila’s intake of breath as we step on board, and I see her eyes darting everywhere as I show her around.
“There are two bedrooms,” I say, glancing back at Claire. “If you’re tired, you’re welcome to take one of them. There’s also a bathroom there—” I gesture toward it. “And two flight attendants to get whatever you need.”
“It’s very luxurious, Ronan,” Claire says with a smile, glancing at her daughter.
“I think I will head back to one of the bedrooms and give the two of you some time.” She gives Leila a hug, taking her carry-on from the attendant who brings it to her, and then follows the attendant back to one of the rooms.
Leila takes a seat next to the window, and I sit down across from her. In short order, the other attendant has brought her a cashmere throw blanket and a set of earbuds. “Thank you,” she says, giving the attendant a smile.
“Can I get you anything else, Mrs. O’Malley? Or you, Mr. O’Malley?” The attendant glances between us. I see Leila flinch slightly at the form of address.
“Something hot to drink, I think,” Leila says with an exhaled breath. “An alcoholic, maybe.”
“A hot toddy, then? And for you?” She glances at me.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I run a hand through my hair as the jet’s engines whirr to life, and I look across at Leila, but she’s looking studiously out of the window and not at me. If I had to guess, I’d say she doesn’t want me knowing what she’s thinking about.
I’d also guess that it’s similar to what I’m thinking.
In less than seven hours, we’ll be in Ireland, far from Boston and De Luca's reach. Far from my father's disapproving stares and the constant pressure to return Leila to Rocco. She’ll be safe—safer—even if I’ll have to come back here sooner rather than later and face what’s waiting.
The attendant comes back with both of our drinks.
Leila slips her earbuds in and pulls up something on her phone—a new one that I got for her that I’m able to track and ensure that no one tries to contact her or use it to get to her that shouldn’t.
I sip my whiskey and try to find something to occupy myself with that isn’t thinking about or looking at my wife, but it’s more difficult than I anticipated.
I should be focusing on business—there are calls to make, strategies to plan, damage control to coordinate. But instead, I find myself watching Leila, studying the delicate curve of her profile, the shape of her mouth, the gleam of her hair in the cabin lights.
Stop, I tell myself. This is exactly what you can't do.
But it's impossible not to think about her, not when the memory of our wedding night is still so fresh.
The way she felt beneath me, the sounds she made, the way she looked at me afterward, like she trusted me.
It was supposed to be a one-time necessity, a legal formality to protect the marriage's legitimacy.
Instead, it was the most intense sexual experience of my life.
And I can’t allow myself to repeat it.
I pull out my phone and try to focus on the messages that have been piling up.
Updates from Finn about the cathedral cleanup, reports about De Luca's movements, queries from business associates who heard about the attack.
Normal crisis management, the kind of thing I've handled dozens of times before.
But I can't concentrate. My eyes keep drifting back to Leila, to the way her auburn hair falls over her shoulder, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Even in simple jeans and a sweater, she's beautiful enough to make my chest tight.
Get it together, I order myself. She's a responsibility, not just any woman I can allow myself to have. She’s my wife, but not really. She’s temporary, and our wedding night was a one-time thing. Something I should try to forget, even if I don’t want to.
But my body isn't listening to my brain. Just looking at her is enough to make me remember how she tasted, how soft her skin was, how tight she felt around my length. I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't advertise exactly what thinking about her is doing to me. My cock is aching, and it’s going to be a long fucking flight if this doesn’t let up.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. O'Malley?" The flight attendant appears at my elbow with a concerned expression.
"I'm fine," I say quickly, grateful for the distraction. "Maybe check on Mrs. O'Malley, see if she needs anything."
Leila smiles, declining anything else, and goes back to what looks like an audiobook from the glimpse I get of the screen. I look down at my own phone, trying to shake off the thoughts pounding through my head like the pulse in my cock right now.
This marriage is temporary. A business arrangement designed to keep her safe. The physical component was a necessity, nothing more. The sooner I remember that, the better off we'll both be.
But Christ, the way she looked when she came apart in my arms…
I yank my tablet out of my bag, pulling up spreadsheets, scrolling through reports, and financial updates. The numbers blur together, meaningless against the memory of Leila's breathless moans, the way she gasped my name as I ran my tongue through her folds.
Fuck, this is insane. I grit my teeth. I’m acting like a teenager who just discovered sex.
But that's exactly what it feels like. Like the night I spent with Leila I rewrote everything I knew about pleasure. Showed me a depth of sensation, of passion, that I’d forgotten was possible and can’t remember ever having felt before.
The rational part of my brain knows this is dangerous thinking. Getting emotionally involved, letting myself want her beyond the physical necessity of our arrangement, is a recipe for disaster. I've seen what happens when people in my world let their hearts override their heads.
And I’ve lost one wife already. If I let myself get close to Leila, if I fail, if I’m distracted again this time for different reasons, I’ll find out what it feels like to lose someone I care about.
It’s not something I want to experience. But looking at Leila, seeing the way she's lost in thought, probably worried about what she's gotten herself into, I feel that same dangerous urge to protect, to claim, to make her mine in every way that matters.
She's not yours, I remind myself firmly. Not really. She's under my protection, that's all. This is temporary.
The word feels hollow even in my own mind.