“Cillian.”
“What? I’m a reformed man,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Mostly.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless—my heart is already molten in my chest, liquefied by the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the miracle and he’s the worshipper. Like he’s already halfway down on one knee even though the ring is sitting snug on my finger.
His thumb skims it now, reverent. “New York will hear you again,” he says softly. “And they’ll know exactly who they wronged.”
“And who I belong to?” I tease.
His gaze lifts, sharp and tender. “No,” he says, firm. “They’ll know exactlywho you are.”
My breath catches. God help me, I love him more than I have words for. He kisses me once more—gentler this time, lingering, almost shy in that way he only ever is with me—and then rests his hand over my heart.
“Come on, dove,” he says quietly. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Our stable house. Our future. Our ridiculous, beautiful life we’re building with our own hands. I lace my fingers through his, anchoring myself to the man who once shattered me and now spends every day putting me back together. As he leads me from the office, lights dimming behind us, he glances over his shoulder with a wicked little smirk.
“And Siobhán?” he says.
“Yes?”
“If anyone else dares slight you…” His smile turns dark velvet. “…just remember—threatening people has been very good to us today.”
I groan. “Cillian O’Dwyer, I swear—”
But he’s already laughing, pulling me into his chest as he kisses the protest right off my lips. And just like that, we walk out into the winter dusk— hand in hand, heir and duchess, devil and his beloved— ready for whatever kingdom we’re about to build next.
1.You are mine
