Chapter three
The Red Ledger
Siobhán
Thesheetsaretoosoft. That’s the first thing I notice when I wake. The second is the way the sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains and lands on the silk pajamas I don’t remember unpacking last night.Or putting on…
Emerald green. Smooth as sin. The pants hang low on my hips. The camisole drapes like it was measured to my collarbones. There’s a matching robe folded neatly at the foot of my bed. Thick, dark green, with a velvet sash and a subtle "O" embroidered near the collar. Cillian always did like to brand what he owned. Even when it wasn’t his to claim. There’s also a pair of velvet slippers waiting by the chaise lounge.
Of course they are. Cillian always knew how to paper a woman. Even the one who hates him.
I slide out of bed slowly, letting my bare feet hit the polished floor. There’s something surreal about the way this room wraps around me—luxury like a weapon. As if every soft thing was chosen not for comfort, but for control.
I shrug into the robe, tie it loose at the waist, and cross the suite to the sitting area just as a knock lands on the door.
“Room service,” a voice says.
I don’t answer. Just unlock the latch and open it halfway. A young staffer wheels in a tray stacked with silver cloches, a French press of coffee, stark white teapot with The giant O on it, a crystal pitcher of orange juice. Behind her, a sleek black garment bag is draped over a second cart.
“I was instructed to deliver your breakfast,” she says with a smile, “and your outfit for the day. Everything’s been curated to your taste.”
I arch one brow. “Was it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. O’Dwyer’s orders.”
Of course they were.
I turn and let the door flow open as I sit cross-legged on the chaise in the living room. The staffer places the tray near me and disappears into the bedroom to lay out my outfit for theday, I presume. She leaves with a tight smile and closes the door behind her.
After she leaves, I make myself a cup of tea and sit back on the velvet chaise, one hand wrapped around a delicate porcelain cup, and stare at the tray like it might bite. Flaky pastries. Smoked salmon. Poached eggs. Sliced strawberries arranged like art. The kind of breakfast no one eats before bleeding on a stage. The sort of breakfast meant to lull you into softness.
I take one bite of the croissant, walk into my bedroom, then unzip the garment bag. It’s not what I expected. Not a dress. Not a threat disguised as temptation. No claws this time. Just an outfit tailored with precision.
A sleek cream wool coat. A cashmere turtleneck, the color of fresh snow. High-waisted black trousers. An emerald scarf so soft it feels like sin between my fingers. And boots. Designer. Italian leather. Beautiful. Deadly. It’s elegant. Subtle. Timeless. And it screamsyou’re being watched.
I smirk as I walk back into the living room and sip the tea. If he wants me dressed for the part, fine. Let him dress me up like a porcelain doll. He’s going to regret giving me silk armor.
I take my time getting ready. Not for him. For me. The clothes were a power play. A gift disguised as control. But I don’t mind playing dress-up—so long as I’m the one choosing the weapon. I slide the trousers on slow. Tuck in the cashmere turtleneck like I’m sealing armor. The boots? Sharp-heeled, supple, and silent.
Then I sit at the vanity, unwrap the silk scarf, and smooth my hair back with deliberate grace. Brows brushed. Mascara wicked. Cheekbones sharpened with a little warmth and a lot of audacity. And then I reach for it. The tube of deep, murderous red.
The one that matches the memory of my mother’s final concert. The one that made men at intermissions forget how to breathe. The one I wore the last night I saw Cillian O’Dwyer. I glide the color on slowly, watching my reflection. Bold. Perfect. Unapologetic.
A siren’s mouth. I blot once. Fix the curl of my hair behind one ear. Then I rise, putting the wool coat on and finishing off with the emerald green scarf. When I open the door to the suite, he’s there—of course he is.Rogue.Grinning like a fox in a room full of drunk hens.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says, arms crossed, one boot kicked up against the opposite wall like he’s posing for a magazine cover calledSmug Bastard Quarterly.“His Highness figured you’d be heading out. Asked me to tag along. Safety and all that.”
I don’t slow down. Just brush past him like he’s made of fog. “I don’t need a babysitter,” I mutter.
He follows, undeterred. “I can drive. Or walk behind ya like a sad, sexy bodyguard. Whatever helps your mood.”
I press the elevator button. Hard. Then turn to him with a smile that could slice flesh. “I need to be alone, Ronan.”
His smile flickers. Just for a second. And I see it—that little twitch of unease behind his eyes. Like he’s wondering if I’m running, or hunting.
“Where you off to then?” he asks, his Dublin accent wrapping around the words like a smirk.
“Somewhere you’re not.”
