Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Ashland
I close the door behind me and lean against it, exhaling like I'm trying to talk myself down after a fight at the sound of her little fists banging on it.
Seamus will fucking kill me.
I can't think about that. I won't. I'll find a way…
Christ, she looked at me like I was a monster.
Maybe that's all I've ever been.
I don't care, really, though I'd like to see her look at me with something other than fear. Anything but that.
The way she looked at me six years ago, before everything went to shite. Before she forgot.
I walk back down to the living area, my boots heavy on the floorboards, and stop at the fireplace. The flames are dying down. I want them to. I need to join her after the fire is out.
Six years. Six years I've watched her, keeping her safe from the shadows she doesn't even know exist. Now she's here, locked in my cabin, looking at me like I'm the very thing she needs saving from. It'd be ironic if it didn't make me want to put my fist through a fucking wall.
I grab the bottle of Jameson from the counter, pour myself two fingers, and down it in one go. The burn helps a little. Her fucking cat meows at me from the sofa, all curiosity, like he's figured out I'm the villain in this story.
“Shut it, cat,” I mutter. “You're here because of her, not because I care about you.”
He just stares at me with those yellow eyes, unimpressed.
I reach back for the whiskey and take another swig, letting it sit on my tongue.
I think about the way her hands shook when I took off the restraints.
The way her wrists were red and marked when I removed them, delicate and breakable under my rough fingers.
The way she flinched when I rubbed the heat back into them, my thumbs stroking over her pulse point.
I think about the way she still looked at me, as if maybe she was trying to remember that night six years ago—not just the rescue, but something else. I've never forgotten how she'd looked at me then, soft and grateful and so fucking beautiful it hurt.
She's here because Marcus Crowning is a fucking gobshite who'll hurt her. At first, I didn’t understand why she would agree to be with a man like him, given his sordid fucking past.
So I did some digging.
Turns out, Crowning’s crimes have been covered up by his arsehole brother, one of Dublin’s finest in law enforcement.
Crowning should be in jail for what he's done.
I down another drink, set the glass in the sink, and stare out the window at the darkness beyond. No lights for miles, no neighbors, no one to hear her if she screams. Good.
She's mine.
My need claws at my chest like an animal, and I tamp it back down.
She's safe , I tell myself, as if warring with the devil and the angel on my shoulders.
She's safe.
Mine.
Safe.
I shake my head and turn away, my eyes resting on her phone, plugged in and tucked away on a shelf. And if she does find it, I've changed her bloody password.
I'll check her messages. I need to see what her fucking fiancé is saying and what her mam said. Make sure no one's getting suspicious. I don't need anyone looking for the lass.
I scroll through her notifications. There are only a few. She doesn't spend much time on her phone, preferring time with her cat, her books, or her friends in person. She has no socials and doesn't text very often.
When I click the message button, there are twelve messages from her fucking mother.
Mam
Bianca love, just checking in. You alright?
You didn't call today, I'm worried. Ring me when you can.
Bianca, love, this isn't like you.
Each one is more frantic than the last. I can picture her pacing the drawing room of the little flat, worried about her reputation. I never much liked her mother. Francesca White’s a fucking narcissist.
I type out a response mimicking Bianca's text style, casual and reassuring. Short and to the point is likely best.
Needed some space to clear my head. The trip is lovely. Please don't worry. I'll ring you soon. Love you.
I click send.
Then fucking Crowning .
Five messages, not nearly as understanding. And it takes every ounce of self-control in my body to not get in the car, drive to the bugger, and beat the living shite out of him like I've wanted to for so long now.
We'll get there, and when I do, I'll savor every goddamn second.
Crowning
Bianca, you can't just leave like this. We need to talk about this properly.
Bianca, answer me.
Is this because I made those comments about your weight and the gym? I only want what's best for you. You got quiet after that.
What a fucking wanker. Criticizing her body? Bianca's ?
Christ. I want to sink my teeth into those curves and fuck her until she knows exactly how perfect she is.
I'll keep this in mind when I finally get my hands on him.
Crowning
Fine. Take your time, but we will discuss this when you get back.
Arsehole.
I type quickly, keeping it short. Bianca wouldn't grovel to him.
You fucking son of a? —
I sigh, delete the damn message, then try again.
Marcus. I said I need space. I just graduated college. I'm not ready to move in with you yet. Respect that, please. I'll be in touch when I'm ready.
I click send. It was ten thousand times nicer than the fuckin' arsehole deserves.
I stare at the phone for a moment, fighting the urge to block his goddamn name from her phone. Fighting the urge to scroll through her photos, to look at her notes, to view all the private bits of her life I haven't seen yet. It'd be so easy, and she'd never know… but I would.
But this is a line, however blurred it's become, that I won't cross. Not yet, anyway.
I set her phone back down and power it off. Then I grab mine from the charging cable by the window.
Shite.
Three missed calls from Seamus. I scroll through the messages.
Seamus
Where the fuck are you? Need you at the meeting tomorrow at ten sharp. Don't forget this time, yeah?
Tomorrow? Fuck. I'd completely forgotten about the goddamn meeting tomorrow. Our cousins Colm and Daire have gone overseas doing what Seamus says is “ research.” Seamus’s brother Torin is still in prison, and I know Seamus is trying to maintain control.
I type back quickly.
I'll be there.
His response comes almost immediately. He's probably at the pub with the lads.
Seamus
You better. Everyone's asking questions about where you've been.
I type back.
Tell them to mind their own fucking business.
Seamus’s response is immediate.
Seamus
Just be there tomorrow. Whatever you're doing, don't bring it back to the family. Clear?
Clear.
I pocket the phone and scrub my hand over my face. Tomorrow. That means I'll have to leave her here alone for a few hours. The thought makes my chest tight. I can't take her with me—it’s too fucking dangerous—but I don't want to leave her here unguarded …
I'll have to lock the doors and secure the windows. She'll be safe. She has to be.
I grab a blanket and pillows from the sofa and head back down the hallway. I pause outside her door and listen. Nothing. Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she's lying there, trying to plot her escape.
I open the door as quietly as I can. The lamp is still on, and she’s in the bed, dressed in the pajamas I brought her—thin white cotton that clings to her curves, the neckline sliding off one shoulder.
Her hair is plaited over one bare shoulder, dark against her pale skin. Her hands are tucked under her face.
My god, she's so fucking beautiful.
She's curled on her side, facing away from me, and even from here I can see the line of her body under the blankets. The dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Her breathing's too controlled to be asleep.
“I know you're awake,” I say softly.
Why'd I say that? Why?
She doesn't respond. With a sigh, I spread the blanket on the floor near the door and set the pillows down, then lower myself onto it with a grunt. It's not comfortable, but I've slept on worse.
“Goodnight, Bianca,” I whisper into the darkness.
Still nothing. But after a few minutes, I hear her breathing change just slightly. I don't know if it's my imagination or if I just fancy it, but I like the fact that she's calmer when I'm with her, as if she's finally allowing herself to sleep, now that I'm in the room with her.
Maybe she's starting to believe me. Maybe she actually does see that this is the way. That she has to trust me.
Maybe it’s just in my head.
I stay on the floor with one eye on the door, one ear listening for her. And I don't sleep, not a wink.
Hours crawl by. I count her breaths. One hundred forty-seven before her body finally relaxes into deep sleep. One hundred sixty-two when the cat starts purring.
I guess Lancelot's a bed cat, after all.
It’s fucking torture on this floor, and not because it's hard as flint. It's torture because she's right there .
So close I can hear every small sound she makes.
So close I can smell that sweet vanilla scent.
So close I can hear the rustle of the sheets when she shifts. The catch in her breath when she dreams. The soft sigh that escapes her lips around three in the morning, breathy and low, and Christ, I have to close my eyes and think of anything else.
What does she dream about? If she dreams about me, I'm a monster in those dreams, not the man who wants to crawl into bed beside her, pull her against my chest, and feel her body pressed to mine. Not the man who's imagined a thousand times what it would be like to kiss her until she melts for me.
I swallow hard and punch the pillow.
Around four, Lancelot pads down from the bed and prowls over to me, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. He stares at my face for a long moment, then settles onto my chest like we're best friends.
“Traitor,” I whisper, but I don't push him off. His presence is somehow comforting, and the purring helps to quiet my thoughts. I run my hand reluctantly over his fur. It's soft and well cared for, like everything else about Bianca's life.
I think about the times I've watched her through the windows. I've memorized every expression on her face. Every habit. Every joy.
The cat kneads his claws into my chest, and I wince. “Easy now, lad,” I mutter. “I'm not a feckin' scratching post.” He does it again, harder, like he's punishing me. Fair enough. I deserve worse than that.
When the sky starts to lighten outside, just barely, that pre-dawn glow of gray, I hear her wake. Her breathing changes. Then a small sound in the back of her throat, disoriented before she remembers.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, and pretend I'm still asleep so I can observe what she does when she thinks I am. Give her a moment to herself, without me staring at her .
The bed creaks. Footsteps, soft and hesitant, pad across the floor toward the bathroom, and the door closes with a quiet click.
I open my eyes. The cat's gone. Smart bastard.
I sit up, roll my shoulders, and work out the kinks in my neck. I check my watch—half five. It’s early, but I've always been an early riser, a habit from a life that requires vigilance and responsibility.
The water runs in the bathroom, and I imagine her splashing her face and staring at herself in the mirror, trying to understand why the fuck she was taken, and what the fuck happens next. Trying to feel safe.
I stand and fold the blanket, stack it with the pillow, then place it on the chair near the corner. I slouch a bit and look away, trying to make myself look less threatening, less like the man who kidnapped her and is waiting for her every move.
Doesn't work. I know what I look like.
The bathroom door opens, and she stands there in her pajamas, her dark hair in a tousled braid, so damn fetching. The morning light from the window catches her just right, and I can see the outline of her body through the thin fabric. Christ. She's not wearing a bra.
Lancelot winds between her ankles, meowing softly, and she reaches down to pick him up, the movement making her pajama top gape open just enough that I have to look away before I do something stupid .
Oh my fucking god.
“Morning, lass,” I say quietly, my voice rougher than I intended.
She doesn't respond, just stares at me.
“I'll make breakfast. You hungry?”
“No.”
There's no fucking way Bianca will starve herself on my watch.
“Of course you are. You'll eat breakfast today if I have to hold you on my lap and spoon-feed you myself.”
I move toward the door to give her space, then stop close enough to catch the vanilla scent again. I’m close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. I turn to her. “Bianca.”
She tenses, and I watch her chest rise and fall faster. Fear, aye. But something else too, something in the way her eyes dart to my mouth before jerking away.
“I meant what I said last night, lass. I'm not going to hurt you. I know you don't believe me yet, but you will.”
Her dark eyes meet mine. Defiant. Terrified.
Beautiful. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to close the distance between us, not to press her against the wall and show her exactly what I want from her.
What I've wanted for six fucking years .
“How long am I here?”
“As long as it takes.”
“That's not an answer.” Her voice trembles, but she doesn't back down. Brave girl.
“It's the only one I've got.” I let my eyes drop to her mouth one more time before I turn and walk out, because if I stay one more second, I won't be able to stop myself from touching her.
Breakfast. It’s time for breakfast.