“I didn’t play for you,” I say. “I played to survive you.”
His hand lifts, stops just short of my face. Not touching. Never quite touching. Like he knows exactly how much distance will undo me.
“Say that again,” he whispers. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel this.”
My lips part before I can stop myself. His gaze drops there instantly. The world narrows to breath and inches and the unbearable pull between us.
His mouth moves closer. Not fast. Not slow. Deliberate. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him. Close enough that my body betrays me, leaning in just slightly, traitorous and weak.
“Finn—” I start.
The door slams open.
“Boss—”
The word cuts through the moment like a blade. We jerk apart as if burned. Finn turns, all warmth gone, replaced by something cold and lethal in a heartbeat.
“What,” he says flatly.
I don’t wait to hear the rest. I grab the violin, my hands shaking now in a way I refuse to acknowledge, and storm past them both. Down the hall. Through the door of the bedroom they’ve assigned me like a guest, like a prisoner. I slam it shut behind me and lean against it, heart pounding, lips still tingling like they’ve been kissed anyway.
I hate him.
I hate that he knows exactly how to pull me apart without ever touching me at all. And worst of all, I hate that part of me was already leaning in when the door opened.
Chapter four
Violence of Wanting Her
Finnian
RóisínMalloydoesnotdisappear after she leaves my office. She moves through the house all day like a storm held just behind glass—felt, not heard. The staff clock it, so do the lads. By afternoon, everyone knows better than to cross her path without reason.
Good.Let her pace. Let her simmer. She always was more dangerous once the fire went quiet.
I spend the day doing what I always do—meetings, calls, men arguing over territory and money like the world isn’t about to tilt on its axis. I don’t mention her name. I don’t have to. It hangs in the room anyway. By the time evening comes, the house is ready.
Dinner is laid. Lamps lit. Fires burning low. The estate settles into that heavy, watchful calm it gets at night, when everything inside it remembers who runs it. That’s when I go to her.
I knock once and open the door without waiting. Róisín is already dressed.Of course she is.A silk dress, dark and fitted, clinging to her like she chose it with violence in mind. No bandages showing. No softness offered. Her hair is down around her shoulders, loose and wild, the kind of look she uses when she wants to remind a man exactly how badly he could fuck up if he underestimates her.
She turns slowly when I enter, eyes sharp, mouth set. “Well,” she says. “Took you long enough.”
I shut the door behind me. Lean back against it, arms crossing. I look at her properly this time—head to toe, no hurry. “You heal fast,” I say.
“I don’t have a choice,” Róisín replies. “Seems men keep deciding things for me.”
I snort. “You’ve never been easy to decide for.”
She steps closer, just enough to test the space. “Why are you here, Finn?”
“Dinner.”
She laughs softly. Bitter. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
Her eyes flick to the door, then back to me. Always measuring exits. Always planning damage. “You think I’m going to sit at your table like agood girl?” Róisín asks.
