Chapter eleven
Red Lies, Red Love
Siobhán
Iwaketangledinsheetsthat still smell like him. Cillian’s arm is slung heavy over my hips, warm and possessive even in sleep. His chest rises and falls behind me in slow, steady breaths, the rhythm of a man unbothered by the world.Must be nice.
I moan softly as I stretch, muscles deliciously sore from the night before—though not sore enough. He never let me finish. Hours later and my body is still humming with frustrated heat, like I’m strung too tight and one wrong move might send me shattering.
God, that man iscruel.
I tried touching myself after he left—slipped my fingers between my thighs and thought about his voice, his mouth, the way his hands had gripped my hips and denied me over and over again—but it was useless. My body knows the difference. It doesn’t want my hands. It wantshis. And now I’m left aching.
My phone buzzes from the nearby chair. Once. Twice. Three times. Persistent. I groan and peel myself away from him slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might wake the beast. He shifts but doesn’t stir. Just grumbles something low and unintelligible in his sleep and tightens his hold on the pillow I’ve abandoned.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom, still wearing nothing but one of his black t-shirts and the ghost of his mouth between my thighs. The hardwood is cold under my feet as I cross the living room. The morning light hasn’t quite reached the windows yet—just enough grey bleeding in to see shadows, shapes. Evidence of last night. The wine glasses. The sheet music I never finished. My shoes, carelessly discarded.
The phone buzzes again. I snatch it up and answer without looking. “Do you have it?”
No hello. No warning. Just that clipped, cold voice I’ve come to loathe.
I suck in a slow breath and whisper, “I told you—I need the ledger. That was the deal.”
“And now the deal has changed.”
My stomach turns.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re in his bed,duchess. You want the ledger, you get me his passcode. The one for his secure vault. You know the one.”
My throat tightens. “No.”
“You want to know who killed your mother or not?” Silence. “I’m not asking you to slit his throat,” the voice sneers. “Just watch. Listen. Get the code. Or walk away and keep living in the dark. Meet me in the music room tomorrow, I’ll text you a time.”
My grip tightens on the phone. My nails dig half-moons into my palm. “Fine,” I whisper. “But you don’t contact me again until you have it. Understood?”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone. And for the first time in a long, long time—I feel like I might throw up. Because I said yes. Because I’m still going to do it. And because the man sleeping in that bed behind me might be the only one who’s ever truly seen me—and I’m about to betray him anyway.
The silence in the room feels alive, pressing against my skin until I can’t breathe. The phone slides from my hand and hits the counter with a dull thud. I stare at it like it might bite me.His passcode.I already know it. I’ve always known it.
My birthday. The one date he should’ve forgotten years ago. The one he still uses to lock his empire. The realization claws through my chest.Oh god.
I stumble toward the kitchen, desperate for something to do, something to ground me. Tea. I’ll make tea. I always make tea. My hands shake as I fill the kettle, water splashing onto the counter, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I open cupboards until I find the tin. Jasmine and rose. My mother’s favorite.
By the time the kettle starts to sing, my breath is ragged, my chest tight. I pour, spill, curse, grab a towel, drop it. The mug clinks against the marble as I set it down too hard. I slice bread, crack eggs, move through the motions like a woman possessed. The smell of butter fills the air, heavy and sweet, but it turns my stomach.
I can’t eat. I can’t even stand still. My vision blurs as I press both palms to the counter, bowing my head. The tears come without warning—hot, choking, furious. They splatter against the marble, dark spots blooming like ink stains.
What the hell am I doing?
He’s a monster. He’smymonster. And I’m about to become worse. Because I know his code. Because I’ve always known it. Because I’m still going to use it. I drop to my knees on the cold tile, clutching the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. My stomach twists, acid crawling up my throat. I think I might be sick.
The kettle clicks off. Steam drifts into the air, curling like a ghost. I wipe my face, stand, grab the mug, and take a shaking sip. It burns all the way down, scalding and bitter. In the next room, I hear the bed creak. Cillian shifting. Maybe waking. Maybe aboutto find me like this—barefoot, broken, and already halfway to betraying him.
I breathe once. Twice. Then wipe my eyes. By the time he walks in, the tears are gone. Only the lie remains.
Cillian doesn’t say anything at first—he just crosses the kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times before, bare-chested and sleepy-eyed, hair a mess from the pillow. His presence fills the space effortlessly. Warm. Unbothered. Like he didn’t just leave me aching and alone in his bed for two hours last night, curled around his pillow, begging for something I wouldn’t let myself take.
