I take the long way out of the city, slipping past traffic with a practiced hand and a quiet thrill building in my chest. Each mile puts more space between me and the velvet trap of his hotel suite. Between me and common sense.
By the time the estate comes into view—tucked behind wrought iron gates and a line of skeletal trees—my grin has faded intofocus. Stone walls. Frost on the hedges. A driveway that curves like a question mark I’m not supposed to answer.
I don’t head for the front gates. Instead, I veer left—down a narrow side path only the O’Dwyer boys and I ever knew. Overgrown hedges scrape the car’s side mirrors, but I keep going. No one’s been back here in years, not since…
The old stables rise from the frostbitten grass like a ghost with good bones. They’re not just stables anymore. Cillian and I turned them into something else once—painted walls, added a fireplace, dragged in furniture we stole from the main house. Our hideaway. Our escape. My breath fogs as I kill the engine. The cottage looms ahead, quiet and waiting.
The cold bites through my pants the second I step out, but I don’t rush. Not here. Not to this place. I trail my fingers over the weathered door as I pass, and just like that—I’m seventeen again.
He’ssprawledonaheap of stolen cushions, one arm behind his head, the other holding a lit candle he’s not supposed to have. Cillian O’Dwyer, too beautiful for his own good, with that smug, dimpled grin that never failed to wreck me.
“We’ll burn the whole place down,” I whisper, slipping off my coat and shivering as I kneel beside him.
He tilts the candle toward me. “Then I guess we’ll have to keep each other warm, won’t we, Dove?”
I hate that nickname. I loved that nickname. I hate him. I loved him.
We’d filled the stables with blankets and lights, snuck out at midnight with purloined whiskey, kissed until the stars forgot their names. This place wasn’t just our escape. It was our promise. He’d made one with a ring from his mother’s drawer.
“Someday,” he murmured, slipping it on my finger. “When the blood dries and the families stop fighting… I’ll make you mine for real.”
I’d believed him. God help me, I’d believed every word.
Now,thelightsarelong gone. The dust has settled thick. But the ring is still in my box next to my bed—cold, forgotten, and real. I close my eyes. Then I push open the door.
The door creaks shut behind me with a softclick. Warmth greets me. Real warmth. The fire’s already lit in the stonehearth, casting amber light across honey-colored floorboards and exposed beams. The air smells like aged leather, firewood, and something faintly sweet—cinnamon, maybe. Someone’s been here. Recently.
But it doesn’t feel threatening. It feels like memory come alive. The cottage has been transformed. What was once crumbling horse stalls now holds a velvet sofa, oil paintings, and an actual chandelier strung from the rafters like some forgotten jewel. A tea set sits beside a half-finished book on the side table. And there, in the corner—impossible to miss—is the baby grand piano.
My breath catches.It’s still here. It gleams like it’s been cared for, dusted and tuned, as though it’s been waiting for me all this time. I cross the room slowly, like a dreamer afraid of waking. My fingers brush the polished edge before I sit, tugging off my gloves and laying them gently on the bench. I press a single key. Then another. And then—
The music spills out of me, unplanned, unfiltered. A bleeding heart poured into ivory and resonance. It’s not the piece from last night. This one is older. Ours. The melody twists and changes. I press harder, faster. The notes aren’t clean anymore. They’re jagged and breathless, fingers slipping into sharp dissonance. Something inside me cracks open. I play like I want to be heard. Like I want to be punished.
A shadow moves behind me. I don’t stop. I know it’s Cillian. He says nothing at first—doesn’t need to. I feel him in the room, carved from stillness and storm. I feel his stare like frostbite crawling up my spine. The tempo stutters. Then steadies.
His voice, low and razor-soft, finally cuts through the air. “You always played like you were trying to set the world on fire.”
I don’t turn around. But I do keep playing—harder now, faster. Every note strikes like a match, reckless and loud and aching. The bench shifts. He’s close enough to touch. Close enough I feel the heat of him like a fever. Still, I don’t look at him.
Cillian’s voice is low. “What are you trying to prove, darling?”
“That I can still burn,” I whisper. “Even when soaked in silence.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. Just breathes—sharp, shallow, controlled. Then his hand slides around my wrist. Not tight. Not harsh. Just enough to still the next chord. The piano rings out in protest, then quiets. My breath catches.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You always do, just before you let go.”
Finally, I look at him. His face is carved from memory—sharper now, harder. But those eyes? They still know me too well. Too much weight in that stare. Too much heat. I pull my wrist back, but he doesn’t let go. He just shifts, pressing his palm to the top of my hand, guiding it to the keys.
“Play,” he says. “For me this time.”
I try. But his touch ruins me. Each note is warped by the thrum in my blood, the heat in my throat, the pressure behind my ribs.
He leans in. His breath skates over my neck. “You don’t get to hide behind the melody, Dove.”
