CHAPTER24
The sun spilled through the lace curtains, soft and golden as if the world hadn’t shifted beneath Aisling’s feet just hours ago.
She blinked awake slowly, tangled in warm sheets and limbs that weren’t her own.
Ronan lay beside her, one arm flung lazily across her waist, his bare chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. In the glow of the early light, he looked almost innocent. Peaceful. Like he hadn’t just turned her entire body to molten fire last night. Like he hadn’t murmured her name against her skin as if it meant something.
Last night, they’d drowned in whiskey and want, and somewhere between the laughter and the longing, she let go. And God, what a night it had been. She’d never known a man who could make her feel so completely undone—who kissed like a prayer one second and claimed her like a wildfire the next. It wasn’t just sex. I
t was raw, consuming, soul-shaking. He’d touched her like he was mapping every inch of her, learning her in a language no one else had ever bothered to speak. One moment, her body melted under the ache of his tenderness—and the next, she swore the heat between them could’ve burned down the damn house.
Lying there beside him, she sighed and knew that somehow last night had changed everything.
For a fleeting moment, she let herself slip into the dangerous luxury of pretending this was real, normal, easy. That she wasn’t tangled in a century-old feud thick with betrayal or drowning in secrets that seemed to multiply every time she turned around. But reality scratched at the edges of that bliss.
She slipped from the bed carefully, reaching for one of his shirts—white linen, worn soft from age—and a pair of shorts then padded quietly to her disastrous kitchen, still torn apart by construction. Her body ached in all the best ways, but her brain was already busy building walls again.
She barely had time to sip the coffee she’d made when the knock came.
Three sharp raps. Purposeful.
Frowning, she glanced at the clock. It was barely half past seven. The workers didn’t come on Saturdays, and Bríd would’ve just let herself in.
Another knock. Firm. Impatient.
Setting her mug down, Aisling walked to the front door, brushing a hand through her hair. When she opened it, a man in a dark blazer and flat cap stood on the porch holding an envelope.
“Miss O’Byrne?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Courier from County Clare Legal Services. I was instructed to deliver this to you directly. It’s time-sensitive.”
She hesitated only a second before taking the envelope and signing the receipt.
“Thank you.”
The man tipped his cap and walked off without another word.
The envelope was thick. Heavy. Her name was scrawled across the front in a careful, formal hand.
Her gut twisted. Good news rarely came from an attorney.
She shut the door, peeled the flap open, and unfolded the first page. The seal of Séamus Gallagher stared up at her.
A chill slid down her spine.
Private Property Agreement — Executed August 12th, 1997
By and between: Noreen Margaret O’Byrne and Séamus Finley Gallagher
Aisling dropped into a chair as her eyes flew across the words.
"...in consideration of maintaining the historical unity of the adjoining estates, it is hereby agreed that should the heirs of the O’Byrne and Gallagher families not enter into matrimonial union within ninety (90) days of Aisling Maeve O’Byrne taking legal possession of the O’Byrne property, said property will revert entirely to the Gallagher family..."
“No,” she whispered. Her fingers trembled. Where the hell had this piece of legalistic jargon come from? Why wasn’t it with the will?
"...this agreement, signed by both parties, is to supersede all previous wills or family declarations. Executed in trust and delivered upon activation by Séamus F. Gallagher..."
