Because my anger wasn’t all for what Cian had done. I had this idea in my head of how life would be when we got back to Boston. I knew what was coming, but I’d dared to dream of something a little different.
He’d spend most of his time with me, just like we’d done in Ireland.
It was only a dream, though, and I still took it to heart. He’d become the entirety of it, even morphing into all the worlds I’d always yearned to see.
When we returned from Ireland and he went straight to work, it gave me a glimpse into the future. He would be gone most of the time, constantly fighting battles he had to win, and I’d be stuck in the cold Boston castle, there for him whenever he needed me to be.
At least the bookstore had been my relief from life, even when, at the same time, it had been a lock on the door to it.
Cian said the lockdown was until he won Boston from the Craigs, but I wasn’t so sure he would ever let me go. The war with the Craigs was only the beginning. Because it wasn’t a war, but only a battle. It would always be war to keep Boston in his grasp. There would always be more Craigs lining up to take it from him, and I’d always be waiting in the shadows, the warm woman pulling him back to life.
I didn’t mind the last part. It had become my purpose in life. I wanted to do it. Needed it even. But I also wanted to do something for me sometimes. Working at the bookstore, being friends with Delaney, even eating at the pub and my woodworking…that would see me through when Cian was fighting battles I’d heal him from.
He’d never understand that, though. Our natures were too different. Our opposites, which attracted us to each other, were also going to try to pull us apart.
Those differences had us on opposing sides of each other after my husband tried to take my arm and I’d shoved him off.
His eyes were even wilder than they were while he was crushing Kyle’s windpipe. Because his eyes hadn’t been wild. They had been almost…dead. When he looked at me—that was when he came alive. It was the same for me. I’d never felt life on such a deep level until I’d met him. Moments had existed only on the surface of the page.
Cian O'Callaghan had brought me inside of the story.
That was what I was fighting for.
Our happily ever after.
“You almost killed him,” I seethed.
“I’d do it again.”
“Not everyone is a threat.”
“When it comes to your life—they are.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, and he seemed to stand even taller. His eyes were focused on me, and I could barely stand to meet them. I moved, needing a bath, needing some space. He moved with me.
I stepped to the left.
He stepped to the left.
I stepped to the right.
He stepped to the right.
He kept blocking me.
It brought back memories of the night I’d run from him for fun. I didn’t want to do that. Turn this into something it wasn’t.
“Move,” I said, tilting my chin up to him, doing my best to keep it firm.
He took a step toward me. I held my ground. His body touched mine, and without even having to pick me up, he moved me. He backed me up until we were in the bathroom and the counter was at my back. He took my wrists in his hands, and I tried to maneuver out of them, but it was no use. His next words reflected his physical action.
“I’ll never let you go.”
His words were the opposite of his touch. They were anguished, like he was losing me, and he couldn’t deal with it. I felt the tremble of his bones through his hold.
He thought because I was mad that I was going to leave him.
For good.
