“For what?” she challenges, chin high. “The silk sheets? The memories? The version of me that only exists in your head?”
I lean against the closet doorframe, arms crossed, pretending I’m not holding my breath. She walks past me like she owns the place. Like she always did.
Her shoulder brushes my chest—deliberate, soft. She doesn’t look at me, not at first. Just reaches past the suits and sweaters I tailored to her memory and runs her fingers along the silk and lace I thought she’d never wear.
Her green robe rustles like wind through chapel leaves. Thin. Winter-defiant. Regal even now. She plucks out a dress. Then another. Velvet. Wool. Satin-lined blouses in winter tones that match her skin. I bought them for every season she never came back. Stocked this closet like it was a shrine. Like I was praying hard enough, she’d walk into it one day and forgive me.
She steps around me again, hips grazing mine, and lays everything out across the bed in tidy, cruel little piles. Then she turns. And looks right at me.
“Didn’t know if I was ever coming back,” she says, voice light, teasing. But her eyes are sharp. “And yet here you are—filling closets and building homes for a ghost.”
I stay silent. Watching. Because now she’s untucking the robe’s sash from her waist. She doesn’t drop it all at once—no. She lets it slide, one side then the other, baring her collarbones, her shoulders, the long, elegant curve of her neck. The green nightgown clings to her like the silk’s afraid to lose her too.
She peels the robe off completely, slow as sin, and folds it. Neatly. Places it at the foot of the bed like it’s nothing. LikeI’mnothing. But she watches me watching her. She knows what she’s doing. Always has.
“You don’t get to ask why I came back,” she murmurs, gaze unreadable. “Not when you built this place like you already knew the answer.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t want to fight, Dove,” I say.
She tilts her head, a little smile at the corner of her mouth. “Then stop looking at me like you’re starving.”
I take one step forward. Just one. She holds her ground.“I’ll ask you again,” I murmur, voice low. “Why are youreallyhere, darling?”
She meets my stare like she’s bored of the question. Then her fingers slip beneath the straps of the nightgown. And she drops it. All of it. Dark green silk puddles around her bare feet like a goddamn offering. She stands there—naked, unapologetic, glowing like a ruinous vision from the past—and I swear the air leaves my lungs in one brutal, involuntary punch. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Don’t play these games.” My voice comes out hoarse, a growl more than a warning. “Not with me.”
She smirks. Slow. Wicked. Regal. Dangerous. “Who said I’m playing?” she whispers, and moves past me again—intentionally grazing against my arm, my chest, like her skin remembers everything we ever were.
She reaches for the lingerie I bought but never thought I’d get to see on her. It’s winter-weight, still decadent—deep hunter green with black mesh accents and satin garters. Beside it on the bed: the heirloom jewels. My mother’s emerald choker. The diamond cuffs. Rings she used to try on as a girl and laugh about owning one day.
Siobhán steps into the lace, pulls the straps over her shoulders, then clasps the back like it’s routine. Like she never left. Then the necklace. She places it against her throat, eyes locked on mine the whole time. No mirror. No hesitation. Like the war between us never happened. This place was our secret once. Now it’s a battlefield. And I’m not sure who’s winning anymore.
She’s a vision of sin in green and diamonds, standing in the middle of my bedroom like she owns the fucking air. My air. The lingerie fits like it was sewn onto her skin—because it was. I had it made for her, down to the last damn garter clip. Not just to wear. To ruin. To tear off her while she begs. While she moans my name like a curse and a prayer.
But instead, she stands there with her chin tipped up like she’s toying with a lesser man. One heel cocked. The emerald choker sitting at her throat like it always belonged there.
I cross my arms. “You like playing with fire, darling?”
She smirks, slow and smug. “Who said I was playing?”
Her voice is all smoke and sharpened edges. And I should walk away. I should let her simmer in whatever game she’s weaving. But I don’t. I take a step closer, then another.
“Tell me why you came back.”
That smile falters. Brief. A crack in the mirror.
“I already told you,” she says, feigning lightness. “Your father’s gala. The charity events. Holiday cheer and musical —”
“Bullshit.”
She blinks. Her gaze hardens. “Excuse me?”
I take a step toward her. Then another. She doesn’t back away—not yet—but her spine straightens, chin tipped high like she’s bracing for impact.
“You came back to haunt my fucking life and expect me to believe it’s for some gala?” I murmur. “You were never a good liar,mo rún.1”
She flinches at the Irish. Just slightly. But I see it. The way her breath hitches. The way her fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to reach for something—me, maybe, or the past, or the part of her that still melts when I speak her mother tongue. Another step. I’ve got her pinned between me and the dresser now. Polished mahogany at her back. My hands braced on either side of her hips. She’s in nothing but lingerie and the O’Dwyer emeralds. Silk and sin and secrets, every inch of her fucking dangerous.
