Leaping to my feet, I reach under the bed and have my Glock 19 in my hands in seconds. Is he here? Has he found out already? Could he have gotten here without me knowing?Fuck. Still clad only in my boxers, I clear the bathroom with a glance. Empty.
“I don’t believe you, Aiden. Please, tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with me. Tell me you haven’t done anything stupid.”
I unlock the door to check the hallway, pausing on the landing to listen to the first floor. But everything is silent except the sound of my heart thundering in my ears and traffic buzzing to life outside the windows. I’m itching to go downstairs to call security and check whether there's been a breach, but I also don’t want to leave. I’m frozen, uncertain. What the fuck is happening to me? A dull, sick feeling takes up residence in my stomach. I hate it. I hate it more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life, and I have enough of the feeling to go around.
“Aiden!” Ma urges. “Tell me.”
Are they safe? The words bounce around the inside of my skull. For as long as I can remember, I’ve only had one person to care for: my mother. Now that there’s another, the balance of my life seems to have shifted dramatically.
I murmur placating words, but I don’t believe them. She hasn’t been safe in a long time. Helplessness has me by the throat as I search through every room, guest bedroom,bathroom, closet. I thoroughly check the study where I found her the first time, the night of the masquerade party, when she’d snuck in here and witnessed me kill that good-for-nothing cop, Dufresne. All empty. Then I remember the closets in the bedroom. She wouldn’t—but she definitely would. I make my way there carefully, gun held in front of me, safety off. I’d been so distracted by the shocking turn of events the day before that I hadn’t considered increasing the security here.
As I move back into the bedroom, skirting a table and the foot of the bed, I find myself forgetting to breathe. The closet door is closed. Had I closed it before going to bed? I can’t fucking remember.
Gun in one hand, I open the door—and relief gusts past my lips as I find Catriona asleep on the floor there, using my clothes for a pillow with a blanket wrapped around her small body. Had she always seemed so small?
“Ma, I’ll tell you everything soon, I promise. Cian isn’t going to do anything to you.” At least, not worse than he’s already done. Not if I’m not there to witness. “Take care of yourself.”
“I don’t care about me,a stór. All I care about is that you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, I promise. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”
“Of course. I love you.”
The words won’t pass over my lips, but she doesn’t mind. She knows I love her. But saying them would feel too much like saying goodbye, so I haven’t in a long time.
My fingers tremble as I hang up the phone, flip the safety back on the gun, and set it on a shelf. The blanket from the foot of the bed only covers part of her body, forcing her to curl into a little ball like a child. Pink-tipped toes poking out from underneath, her knees uncovered, and her palms clasped together and pillowed under her cheek. Dark circles smear underneath her eyes, pulling my mouth into a frown. I givemyself another minute to slow my breathing and get ahold of my emotions.
Then I push away from the doorframe to retrieve some clothes. Jeans. A Henley sweater I shove up my forearms. Boots. I strap on a smaller handgun to an ankle holster. Catriona may have been perfectly safe, but waking up and not knowing if Cian had been here makes my palms itchy, and I feel better with an emotional support weapon on me at all times.
By the time I’m finished dressing, Catriona begins to stir. I sit on the bed, going through my security feed as she drifts back to consciousness. From this vantage point, I can only see a sliver of her, but it settles me to keep her in my sights.
As I study the feed for the second floor and confirm that the only others coming in or out of the house have been my staff, I release the remaining tension held captive in my body. Frances answers my text a moment later, confirming she has breakfast ready for us and that she already has clothes waiting for Catriona downstairs.
Feeling much more level, I leave Catriona to her own devices for a few minutes while I double-check the third and first floors, needing to see in person that no one else is here. The rest of the house is empty. With that confirmed, I retrieve the clothes Frances fetched and bring them back to the second floor. I find Catriona waiting in the bedroom, sleep rumpled and soft. Too soft. Easily breakable.
She stands silhouetted in the closet doorway, still clad in my white T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She crosses her ankles, drawing my eyes back up to her full, flared hips, generous breasts, and finally to the scowl still sitting on her lips.
She parts them to speak, and a yawn cuts her off before she can continue. “Wha-what do you want?”
This is the morning after I hadn’t been privileged enough to witness the first time we were together. Of course, I would havepreferred to wake up with her naked body against mine. But there’s a vulnerability to her now, before she’s dressed and all done up. A side of her that most people aren’t normally witness to.
“Are you hungry? I believe we skipped dinner.” Her stomach growls loud enough that I hear it as clear as a bell. Her cheeks redden with embarrassment, and I say, “I guess that answers my question. I had Frances bring you some clothes. After you get dressed, we’ll go down to the kitchen. We’ll eat at the table there, and I’ll answer three questions.” I hand her the clothes without waiting for her agreement, a huff of displeasure aimed at my back.
I can practically feel her thoughts racing, wondering why I haven’t berated her for choosing to sleep on the floor rather than next to me. What she doesn’t realize is that I don’t care where she sleeps, for now, as long as she does it where I can keep an eye on her.
Catriona takes the clothes and moves to the bathroom. She comes out wearing a light pink thigh-skimming dress made of lace flowers, her face as made up as she can get it, skin bright and clean, hair in a simple twist. Elizabeth would have been a satisfactory wife, but Catriona… It’s like she was born for this. No one would doubt the man at her side. It’s only too bad for her that the man is me.
I nod to the stairs, and she skirts around so she’s in front of me. It soothes an ache in the pit of my stomach caused by her absence this morning to keep her in front of me. Cian has eyes everywhere, and even though I’ve walked through the entire house, I still feel like he’s watching. Always watching. Waiting for me to let down my guard.
“Why only three questions?” she asks over her shoulder, as we move down the stairs to the kitchen.
“Because if I give you free rein, you’ll turn it into a deposition, and it’ll put both of us off our breakfast. Plus, I want something in return.”
“Color me shocked. And what exactly do you want?”
I flick an immovable glance back at her. “To negotiate.”
She follows me silently, no doubt planning and plotting in that pretty little head of hers. She simply wouldn’t be her father’s daughter if she wasn’t, but it doesn’t deter me. I’ve always maintained my position by being one step ahead of my opposition, and the same is true when it comes to battlingMrs. O’Connor.
