25. Atara
Atara
Tear me to pieces!
I’ve gone through three different gowns in the last twenty minutes, and every single one of them feels like a costume.
If I wear the floor-length black sheath, I look like I’m auditioning for a role as a funeral director.
If I wear the gold one, I look like a prize someone’s about to put on a shelf.
And if I wear the red... well, the red makes me look exactly like what Lorcan wants me to be: a target.
Focus, Atara.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in nothing but my underwear, staring at my reflection.
My skin is pale, and the dark circles under my eyes aren't going anywhere, no matter how much concealer I pack on. I look like a woman who’s spent the last week auditing a criminal empire, which I have.
I’m tired of the rules, tired of the fear, and mostly, tired of the way my stomach does a backflip every time I hear his footsteps in the hall.
"Stupid," I mutter at my reflection. "You’re a finance major, not a debutante. Pick a color and move on."
"I think the gold one makes you look like the sun," a small voice says from the doorway.
I turn, and Maeve is standing there, leaning against the frame. She’s wearing her pajamas, her dark hair a tangled mess, and she’s holding her stuffed rabbit by the ear.
"Oh, hey, munchkin," I say, my voice softening instantly. "It’s way past your bedtime. Are the puzzles not enough to tire you out?"
"I wanted to see the pretty dresses," she says, walking into the room. She reaches out and touches the hem of the gold gown. "It’s shiny. Why don't you want to be shiny?"
"Because sometimes being shiny gets you noticed by people you don't want to meet," I say, crouching down to her level. "And tonight, I need to be... well, I need to be invisible, or at least very, very prepared."
Maeve tilts her head. "Like hide and seek?"
"Exactly. Like hide and seek, but with higher stakes."
Before she can ask another question, the heavy thud of boots echoes in the hall. Maeve’s face lights up.
"Dada!"
Lorcan fills the doorway a second later. He’s already in his tuxedo trousers, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He looks tired, but the moment he sees Maeve, the lines around his eyes ease up just a fraction.
"Maeve," he says, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "What are you doing in here? It’s past eight."
"Atara is picking a skin," Maeve says, looking at the gowns. "She doesn't like the shiny one."
Lorcan walks into the room, his gaze moving from Maeve to me.
He stops a few feet away, his eyes tracking the mess on the bed, then settling on me.
He doesn't look at my body with the usual heat he has on, it’s more analytical, almost like he’s trying to figure out which piece of armor fits the situation.
"You’re going to be late," he says.
"I’m struggling with the fashion diplomacy of a mafia gala," I say, gesturing at the pile on the bed. "Gold is too much, black is depressing, and red is a lighthouse beacon."
Lorcan steps closer, ignoring the piles of silk. He walks toward Maeve, scoops her up in one arm, and gives her a playful nudge. "If you don't get yourself to bed, I’m going to tell Maria to hide your favorite dinosaur."
Maeve shrieks, a bright, bubbly sound. "No! You wouldn't!"
"Try me," he says, with a grin that actually reaches his eyes. He spins her around, her small feet kicking, and she’s laughing so hard she’s almost breathless. "Come on, little monster. Up to bed. Now."
"But I want to see the dress!"
"You'll see it tomorrow. Go." He gives her a kiss on the cheek, sets her down, and gives her a gentle swat on the behind, ushering her toward the door.
She runs out, giggling, and I hear her footsteps fading down the hallway.
Lorcan turns back to me. The playfulness vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that heavy, magnetic stillness. He walks toward me, his gaze dropping to the floor where I’m standing in my lace bra and panties. He doesn't look surprised. He looks like he’s been expecting this.
"The gold," he says, reaching out to pick up the gown. He holds it up, the silk shimmering under the vanity lights. "It’s too soft."
"And the black?"
"Too quiet. You aren't quiet, Atara." He tosses the black dress onto the bed and reaches for the red one. He holds it up, the color rich and blood-dark. "This one. Wear this."
"Red? Are you trying to make me a target, Lorcan? I’m already carrying your ledger. I don't need a neon sign on my back."
He doesn't put the dress down. He walks over, his presence crowding me into the vanity. "Everyone is going to be watching you tonight. They’re going to know who you’re with. I want them to know exactly what they’re looking at."
He drops the dress onto the bed and steps closer, his hand coming up to touch the skin of my shoulder. His fingers are cool, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his chest. "Stop fighting me. It’s a gala, not a board meeting. You’re coming as my partner, not an auditor."
"My partner doesn't usually dress me like a doll," I counter, though my breath is already catching.
"I’m not dressing you," he says, his thumb tracing my jawline. "I’m choosing my favorite."
He pulls me in, his hands large, cool, and firm on my waist. I should be annoyed. I should be screaming at him about autonomy. But his eyes are locked on mine, and there’s something else there—a heavy, weighted anticipation.
He turns me around. He holds the red dress up, and I slip into it. The silk is cool against my skin, sliding down my body like a second layer.
"Turn," he says.
I turn. He reaches for the zipper at my spine. His fingers are careful, moving slowly. The tension in the room is suffocating. As the zipper slides up, his knuckles brush against the skin of my back, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my center.
When he gets to the top, he doesn't pull away. He leans down, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, his breath hot against my pulse.
"You smell like trouble," he murmurs.
"I’m only trouble to you. I normally am very calm and gentle, but you bring out the trouble in me." I whisper, turning back around to face him.
He looks at me, his eyes dark, heavy, and full of a raw, unvarnished hunger. He doesn't say anything else. He just reaches out, his hands finding the waist of the dress, and pulls me against him.
He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me before the night begins.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him into me, wanting to erase every inch of space.
He lifts me, setting me back onto the dresser behind me.
I gasp as the edge digs into my thighs, but he doesn't let me fall.
He steps between my legs, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.
"We have to go soon," I breathe, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"We have time," he says. His hands are firm as he finds the hem of the red silk gown. He bunches the fabric up, exposing my legs to the cool air, and then his thumbs catch on the waistband of my lace underwear, he just slides them down my legs and leaves them in a heap on the carpet.
My bare skin feels sensitive, the air prickling against my inner thighs. He doesn't rush, though. He pushes me back until the sharp edge of the dresser digs into my thighs, forcing me to stabilize myself by gripping the edge of the wood.
He moves between my legs, his knees pressing into the floor. I can feel the rough heat of his jaw against the soft skin of my inner thigh.
His tongue is hot. It’s a shock against the cool, wet center of me.
He doesn't start with a tease; he starts with pressure.
He sucks, his mouth closing over me, and the sound of his tongue against my skin is wet and steady.
Every time I try to pull back, he catches my hips with his palms, holding me exactly where he wants me.
His stubble drags over the sensitive folds, a rough, scraping sensation that keeps me on edge.
"Lorcan," I choke out. I grip the edge of the dresser so hard my knuckles ache, my head falling back against the mirror.
He ignores me, or maybe he likes the sound, because he just gets faster.
He’s obsessive. He tracks the movement of my hips, and whenever I start to lift, he presses his face harder into me, his tongue working in a tight, frantic rhythm.
My breath comes out in short, broken gulps.
I’m arching my back, my toes curling against the floor, trying to find some leverage, but he’s got me completely pinned.
I can feel him through the fabric of his trousers, the solid, heavy heat of him.
He doesn't use his hands to gentle me; he uses them to keep me right on the brink. He licks until I’m shaking, until the dampness is running down my thighs, until I’m sobbing his name because the sensation is too bright, too focused.
He pulls back, his lips wet and shining in the vanity light.
He doesn't give me a second to settle. He reaches for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle loud in the room.
He strips his trousers down, and he is heavy, hard, and pulsing with a desperate need.
He finds me, and he pushes inside without a prelude.
It’s a blunt, grounding entry. He fills me, thick and hot, and I gasp as he hits deep.
He doesn't grind; he settles, letting his weight pull him into me. Then he begins to move, slow, deliberate strokes. He pulls back until he’s barely there, the air hitting the wetness inside me, and then he drives back in, his eyes locked on mine.
He doesn't look like the Don. He looks like a man who is trying to anchor himself to the only thing that’s real in a room full of lies.
He leans in, his mouth covering mine in a slow, deep kiss.
His tongue tangles with mine, the rhythm of his hips matching the slow slide of his mouth.
The weight of the dresser digs into my thighs, but I don't care.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase every inch of space between us.
"Atara," he growls against my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips until I know the bruises will bloom by morning.
I don't hold back. I let my eyes flutter shut, and I surrender to the rhythm of his body, the friction of his skin against mine, the heat that’s rising up to consume us both. I pull him in, my nails digging into his shoulders, forcing him to match my desperation.
He breaks. His rhythm shifts from slow and conversational to something frantic, something raw.
He drives into me, his thrusts accelerating until I’m sobbing, my head tossing from side to side.
He hits that perfect, agonizing spot inside me again and again, and my walls clamp down, milking him, trapping him.
I cry out, my body shattering into a hot, blinding light. His name is the only thing I can say, the only thing that makes sense. He spills himself into me, a searing, heavy heat that makes me feel hollowed out and completely full at the same time.
We stay like that for a long moment, locked together, our breaths matching, the silence of the room returning.
He eventually pulls back, adjusting his clothes, his movements quiet. He kisses my forehead—a soft, lingering touch that feels more intimate than anything that came before it.
I look at him. I see the man beneath the Don. I see the grief, the duty, and the desperate, stubborn man who is fighting for a life he never thought he could have.
I make a silent promise. History doesn’t repeat itself.
Not with Maeve. Not with the Gala. Not with him.
I fix my hair, smooth the red silk of my dress, and look at my reflection. I don't look like a victim. I don't look like a girl who cries over breakups.
I look like a woman who is ready to win.
I catch Lorcan’s eye in the mirror. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
I’m ready.