"Because I'm nearly forty years old and you're eighteen!" The words explode out of him. "Because I'm a killer who's spent half his life taking orders and the other half giving them. Because when I look at you, all I can think about is how badly I want you, and how fucking wrong that is. You should be with someone your own age, someone who hasn't seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done. Someone who deserves you."
"And you think you don't deserve me?" I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. "Is that what this is about?"
"I know I don't." He takes a step toward me, and I can see the anguish in his face now, the careful mask crumbling. "I'm covered in scars and blood and death, Maeve. I'm everything you should run from. And instead, you look at me like I'm something worth having.Christ, that terrifies me."
His hands clench into fists at his sides. "I want you so badly it keeps me up at night. The thought of touching you, of having you, makes me feel like it’s the only thing I might ever want again. And that's the most selfish thing I've ever felt."
I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "How is wanting me selfish?"
"Because you deserve better than a broken man who's going to disappoint you at every turn." He runs his hands through his hair. "Because taking what I want from you means stealing your future. It means binding you to someone who will always have blood on his hands. You’ll never get out of this marriage if we do this. If I… have you."
"You're not stealing anything," I say, taking a step toward him. "I'm offering. There's a difference."
"You don't understand what you're offering." But he doesn't move away when I get closer.
"Then explain it to me." I'm standing right in front of him now, close enough to touch. "Stop making decisions for me and just talk to me."
He looks down at me, and I can see the war playing out in his eyes, his want and fear and guilt all tangled together.
"I'm afraid I'll ruin you," he says finally, his voice raw. "I'm afraid I'll take your light and your hope and your goodness and turn them into something dark. Something like me. And I'm afraid that even knowing that, if we go on like this, I won't be able to stop myself from taking you anyway."
“What if I trust you not to do that?” The words are out before I can second-guess them. "What if I don’t think you’ll break me?”
He makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a curse. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not? It's true." I reach up, placing my hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath my palm. "You haven’t hurt me. You say you’re this rough, broken, violent man, and I don’t doubt that’s true… I’ve seen some of it. But you hurt yourself rather than keep scaring me on our wedding night. You haven’t done anything to me that I haven’t wanted. Yes, I’m terrified of you sometimes, but you scare everyone else, too… so maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
"Maeve..." My name is both a warning and a plea on his lips, as he looks at me. I can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he wants to touch me, and I want that, too. I want it so badly it hurts.
"And maybe you're right," I continue. "Maybe you are too old for me. Maybe you are jaded and cold. But you're also kind, even when you try to hide it. You're patient with me. You make me laugh. And when you look at me, I feel seen. Really seen. Not as an heiress or a mafia daughter or some fragile thing that needs to be locked away. But as me."
His hand comes up to cup my face, slowly, as if he can’t fight it any longer, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "You undo me," he whispers. "Every defense I've ever built, you just walk right through them."
“What’s wrong with that?” I whisper.
He leans down, resting his forehead against mine, and we stand there for a long moment, just breathing together. I can feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself back. "There are things we can do," he says finally, his voice rough. "Things that won't prevent an annulment. We could be together without... we don't have to consummate the marriage. Not if you want to keep your options open."
The words sting, even though I know he's trying to give me a choice. "Is that what you want? To keep things unconsummated so it's easier to get rid of me later?"
“I can’t let this go all the way, Maeve. Not when…” He lets out a heavy breath. “Not when I still feel like this is wrong. Like you deserve better than me. You’re going to realize that eventually. You’ll want… something else. Someone else. You’ll want me to let you go.”
The truth is that I don't know what I want. An hour ago, I thought I knew. I thought I wanted him, wanted this marriage, wanted to try to build something real from the forced arrangement we'd been given. But now, with him offering me a conditional version of intimacy, a relationship with an exit strategy already planned, I'm not sure of anything.
"I don't know if I want to stay married to you," I admit, and I feel him tense. "Not if you're always going to have one foot out the door. Not if you're always going to be planning for the day when I leave. I don't want to be someone's temporary problem, Sean. I've been that my whole life."
"You're not a problem." His hands frame my face, gentle but insistent. "But I’m going to ruin this, Maeve. I fuck up everythingI touch. I’m built to destroy things, not build them. And I don’t want you trapped when you see that. Hating me when I…”
“Why don’t you want to just be with me?” I whisper, and I hate how small my voice sounds when I say it.
"I want to." His thumb traces my lower lip, and heat flares through me despite everything. "God, you have no idea how much I want to."
“Then just show me,” I whisper. I can feel his touch vibrating through my body, and I’m aching for him, sensations sweeping through me that I’ve only ever experienced with him. “Sean, please?—”
For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I can see him wrestling with himself. Then something shifts in his expression, some decision being made, and he kisses me, hard and desperate, like he's trying to pour all the words he can't say into it.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I open for him, letting his tongue slide into my mouth. Heat flares through me, and it feels like every nerve in my body is alight before he’s done more than just press his mouth to mine.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the couch, and then he's lowering me onto it, covering my body with his. The weight of him is intoxicating, making me breathless, and I arch up into him, wanting more.
