Chapter 7 #2
He cuts me off with a scoff. “Marcus will do fuck all.” A muscle tics in his jaw.
“Marcus thinks you're on a trip,” he says quietly, his rough voice dropping even lower.
“You've asked for some time, and in a bit I'll check your phone to see if he's been gracious enough to grant it or if you'll have to push a bit outside your comfort zone.”
He frowns. “My guess is not so much, but at least he won't come looking for you. Sit down, Bianca.”
“Stop saying my name!”
“No.”
“You don't know me.”
“I do.” He moves to the chair across from the sofa, lowering himself into it with surprising grace for a man so big. The wood creaks under his weight. Those silver eyes pin me in place. “I've known you for a long time now. And the fact that you don't know me doesn't erase that.”
My pulse is hammering in my ears.
“That's ridiculous. I've never seen you before.” It's a test, though, to see what he'll say, because he is somehow… familiar. I just can't place him.
“You have.” His gaze is steady and unwavering, and I notice for the first time that his eyes aren't just gray—they're ringed with a darker charcoal that makes them almost hypnotic. “You just don't remember. And I said sit down. Things will go much better for you if you do what you're told.”
“Is that a threat?”
I'm trying to be brave, but my heart still thumps in my chest. The way he could so easily overpower me and has.
Would he hurt me if I disobeyed?
He gives me a pointed look that sends a shiver down my spine, and I'm not entirely sure it's unwanted. Taking a step toward me, he holds my chin between his fingers, his eyes locked on mine.
“Sit. Down.”
My legs feel unsteady, and I don't want to appear weak in front of him. Sitting feels like giving in, like obeying, like accepting this reality.
But I'm wobbly and hungry, and standing just out of sheer stubbornness doesn't serve me.
So I begrudgingly sit, ignoring the way his low growl of approval makes me feel.
“Six years ago,” he says huskily. He leans back in the chair, and the firelight plays across his tattooed arms, making the Celtic patterns seem to move. “Outside of Tessa's Bistro. There were a couple of lads who came looking for trouble. Tried to take you, didn't they? I sent them on their way.”
The memory surfaces like it's been dragged from deep water.
Yes, my god, I do remember. How could I forget? He was vicious and violent, and he… he saved me. I've thought of him a hundred times since.
But now I'm looking at him, really looking, and I see it. The same massive frame, the same lethal grace. He had a bit more hair then, dark and cropped short, but those eyes… those silver eyes I'd remember anywhere.
“That was you?”
“Aye.”
I shake my head and force myself to breathe. “That doesn't explain this. You don't just kidnap someone because you helped them once.”
He leans forward, draws in a deep breath, his elbows on his knees, and I see his split knuckles up close now, scabbed over, fresh and recent.
“You're not safe here right now. In Ireland, I mean. And I don't know yet what I'm going to do about that, so you're here with me, for now. Because you're safe with me.”
Something in my chest loosens. I swallow hard.
“Safe from what? ”
“From people who want to hurt you.”
“Says my kidnapper.”
He blows out a breath, and I catch myself watching the way his chest expands, the way the T-shirt stretches across all that muscle. “I already told you, and you didn’t believe me.”
“Well, that's convenient for you, isn't it?”
He only frowns. “Drink your tea. It's getting cold.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” The words come out sharper than I intended.
Something flickers in his expression, something like… approval. The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize with a start that he's attractive in a brutal, dangerous way I shouldn't be noticing right now.
“There she is,” he murmurs, and his rough voice does something to me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. “Good girl. Was wondering when you'd show some spine, lass. You're a good girl, but you're no pushover, are you, Bianca?”
Heat floods my face. I don't know if I'm embarrassed or angry or some twisted combination of both.
“You don't know anything about me.”
It's a stupid retaliation because he's proven that he does, in fact, know quite a bit about me .
“Is that right?” he says. There's something chilling in that look of calm on his face, something predatory in the way those silver eyes track my every movement.
“I know you studied history at DCU. I know you work Tuesdays and Thursdays at the coffee shop on Gravel Street, the one with those terrible scones. I know you take the bus home, and you don't have a bodyguard when you should have a fucking team.”
“So it's fine for you to curse but not me?” It feels like a childish deflection, but it's all I've got.
He almost smiles, and the expression transforms his face, softening those brutal features just enough to make him devastatingly handsome. “Fair. I know you bite your thumbnail when you're nervous.” His gaze drops to my hand, and I realize I'm doing it right now.
I snatch my hand away from my mouth.
“I know your favorite color's purple, but the light, pale kind.
I know you're shite at poker. I know you laugh at your own jokes before you get to the punchline because you're fuckin' adorable.” He clamps his lips shut as if he didn't mean to say that last bit.
“I know you've got a heart for animals, and you fancy yourself in old England with King Arthur sometimes.”
“Fine, I get it.” I don't want to hear any more. It’s creepy, and the room is spinning.
But he doesn't stop, as if he needs to prove a point .
“I know you like cats, and yours is named Lancelot. Even though I hate cats, I know he's your best confidante, so…” He stands up, unfolding that massive frame from the chair, and walks into another room. When he comes back, his tattooed arms are cradling?—
“Lancelot!” I blink rapidly in disbelief.
“Aye. Lancelot wanted to come with you, so I said he could. I thought it might give you a little comfort. A little something from home. I thought maybe if you saw I brought your damn cat, you wouldn't be so afraid of me.”
He drops Lancelot in my lap, and his strong, scarred hands are surprisingly gentle. I bury my face in Lancelot's soft fur and will myself not to cry. Lancelot purrs and squalls, as if he wants to let everyone know this is not okay. But he's at least happy to see me.
What kind of kidnapper takes the cat?
“How did you get him here? He scratches other people who try to touch him.”
He shrugs those broad shoulders. “Carried him by the scruff, the way his mother would've, wrapped him in a blanket, then put him in the boot.”
“You put my cat in the boot!”
His eyes almost twinkle at me, and I notice for the first time the laugh lines at the corners, softening that brutal beauty.
“He was fine, with plenty of oxygen, though he squalled his damn head off most of the way.” He rubs his hand across the scruff on his jaw.
“ I just told you a laundry list of things I know about you, and you're worried about your cat in the boot?”
He holds my gaze with those unsettling gray eyes, and I notice the dark lashes framing them, ridiculously long for a man so dangerous.
I shrug.
He looks at my cat with scorn, and the expression is almost comical on that hard face. “I thought it might help the situation, not because I like cats. Does he go outside for his—needs?” Clearly, he's been stalking just me, not my cat.
“No, of course not. He’s an indoor cat that needs a litter box.”
I can't believe I'm talking about my cat's toileting habits with my kidnapper.
“Fuck's sake,” he mutters as he frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets, the movement making his biceps flex beneath all those tattoos.
A beat passes. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough.”
“That's not an answer!”
His jaw clenches, and he seems to mull over the words, that muscle jumping again in a way that shouldn't be fascinating. “Since you were way too fucking young. ”
My chest burns, and my heart flips over. “Too young for… for what?” I whisper. But this time, he doesn't answer.
I should be terrified. I am terrified, but underneath the fear, there's something else, something I don't have a name for, because he said he's protecting me, and those knuckles tell a story.
He's been watching me, to make sure I was… safe?
No, that's absurd. I can almost hear my mother chiding me.
Don't romanticize this, Bianca.
Get your head out of the clouds, Bianca.
This isn't a book, Bianca.
“Jesus, this is crazy,” I whisper. “You're mad, eh?”
“Aye.” He stands, and I cringe involuntarily. He towers over me, all that contained power and brutal strength, and I hate that some traitorous part of me notices the way his body moves with predatory grace. “We're all mad here,” he whispers.
I swallow hard. I didn't expect my kidnapper to take my cat, and I didn't expect him to quote Lewis Carroll.
He notices me backing away and stills, his whole body going quiet in a way that's somehow more threatening than movement. “I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca. I need you to believe that. ”
“Then maybe don't kidnap me to start things off,” I whisper back.
“I had no choice.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I swallow. “We always have a choice.”
He sighs, running one tattooed hand over his shaved head in what seems like a frustrated gesture.
“Listen, love. I don’t know how else to tell you that I didn't bring you here to hurt you.”
My heart thumps, and I'm not sure why.
“Don't call me that.” My voice cracks. “You don't have the right. You don't know me.”
He smiles sadly this time, and the expression makes him look almost vulnerable, softening those brutal features.
“No, lass. You don't know me . I know you better than most people in your life, Bianca.
I've watched you become the person you are. Watched you navigate that minefield of a family. Watched you try so hard to be good, to be perfect, to never make waves.”
He steps closer to me, close enough that I can smell him—pine and smoke and something darker, more masculine. His silver eyes bore into mine. I know I should move away, but I'm rooted to this spot. For a second, I wonder if he’s a half-wolf who transforms under the light of a full moon .
“I know how good you are. Better than most people I've ever known. I've seen you when you didn't know anyone else was looking. When you stop performing for everyone else, I see the real you.”
“Stop.” My hands are shaking. “Just stop. Don't you have any fucking idea how creepy that is? Stop .”
He does, immediately, like the word is a physical barrier between us. He gives me a cursory look.
“If I gave you food now, would you eat it?” My stomach growls as I think of warm, crusty bread and a bowl of D'Agostino's pasta.
I'm starving. I haven't eaten in hours and have been trying to get by on as little as possible, knowing I was moving in with Marcus, who wouldn't approve.
I clench my teeth and hold his gaze. “No.”
Something flickers in his expression, and again, I'm vividly aware of how he's holding himself back, restraining something in him. “Right, then,” he says. “I'll show you to your room.”