The front door slams, making us both jump. Cillian bolts upright, body coiled like a spring, grabbing for the gun on the nightstand. My heart hammers, still tangled in blankets, breath caught somewhere between dream and dread.
A voice echoes down the hall. “It’s me!”
Rouge.
Cillian exhales sharp relief and drops the weapon back down, then drags his hands over his face. The sheets fall from his chest. I already miss his warmth. He’s up, halfway to the door before Rouge even rounds the corner.
“It’s your father,” Rouge says grimly. “He’s looking for you.”
My stomach sinks.Of course he is.Of course Darragh O’Dwyer knows I’m here.
“It’s not good,” Rouge adds, voice low, eyes flicking toward me.
Cillian doesn’t hesitate. He’s already moving, pulling on his pants, his sweater, the shoulder holster he’d discarded like armor last night.
“No,” I whisper, sitting up, the sheet pulled up over me. “Don’t go.”
He turns to me, comes back to the bed, kisses me once—slow and deep and grounding. “I have to,mo ghrá.”
“I’m not worried about you,” I murmur. “I’m worried aboutRouge.”
He grins at that. A sharp, wicked flash. “So am I.”
“Fuck off,” Rouge grumbles, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m delightful.”
Cillian pulls his jacket on, but before he steps away, he cups my cheek again, rough thumb trailing down to my jaw. His eyes burn into mine.
“Don’t leave this house,” he says, voice suddenly all command and steel. “I mean it. Not even a toe across the threshold.”
“I won’t.”
He nods, presses one last kiss to my forehead, and then leans in toward Rouge. I can’t hear what he whispers, but Rouge nods once, serious. Then Cillian’s gone. Gone to face the devil who raised him. I pull the blanket tighter around me, already cold.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, the silence pressing in around me. My mind races with possibilities, each one darker than the last. But I know he walked straight into the fire for me. And I can’t sit here doing nothing.
I move.
Dressing quickly, I choose comfort without sacrificing the elegance Cillian wrapped around me like a vow. Everything in the closet fits me like it was made for me—because it was. He remembered everything I ever dreamed of wearing. I pull on a soft cashmere set in forest green, the color deep and grounding, the fabric a whisper against my skin. Gold thread at the cuffs. A perfect weight for a morning spent in limbo.
Hands need to be busy.
I walk barefoot into the kitchen, tie my hair back, and start breakfast. The familiar rhythm steadies me. Kettle on. Eggs, toast, berries. Tea for me. Coffee for Rouge. He never was one for dainty things. By the time the scent of butter and bread fills the air, my shoulders have dropped an inch.
Just as I set the table, Rouge wanders in, yawning like he’s still half asleep and entirely too tall for the delicate linen chair he slumps into. He doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Just lets me do it. I pour the tea. And for the first time in years, I tell someone everything.
Rouge doesn’t touch his food right away. Just watches me, the steam from his coffee curling up into the space between us like smoke from a long-buried fire.
When I finally speak, my voice is quieter than I expect. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his brow. “Like what?”
“Like…all of it. Coming back. Seeing him again. Feeling like I never left, and like I’ve changed too much all at once.”
Rouge doesn’t say anything right away. Just lets the silence sit. Then he shifts on the hay bale like his ass is made of glass. “Well, fuck. That’s heavier than I expected.”
I huff out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “It really is.”
Rouge scratches behind his ear and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So what really happened, duchess? Why are you really back?”
