Instead, my pulse races for an entirely different reason. A tingling heat races from the tips of my ears all the way to my core. It carries with it that same fluttering sensation from this morning, only stronger now. More insistent.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there for one heartbeat. Two.
I jerk backward. “I—uh—that should heal up well then?—”
“Thank you.” His voice comes out rougher than before. Deeper.
The awkwardness between us thickens until I can barely breathe through it. I don’t understand what just happened. What I just felt. My face burns and I can’t look at him.
“It’s getting late. I should let you get some rest.” He stands, putting space between us that I do and don’t want at the same time.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
He pauses at the entrance to the hallway. Doesn’t turn around. “Nora. When you sleep tonight, consider using the bed. Please.”
The word please does something to my chest. I’m not used to being spoken to like that. I’m used to demands. Orders.
I nod again, even though he can’t see me.
He disappears down the hall. I sit at the counter for a long time after, trying to figure out what’s happening to me.
Later, I stand in the doorway of the guest room.
Use the bed, he said. Like it’s simple. Like I don’t have years of conditioning screaming at me to stay small, stay hidden, be invisible.
But he said please.
I think about his hand in mine. Warm and solid.
I pull back the covers and slide between sheets that probably cost more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. The mattress is like a cloud. The pillows smell like lavender. The blankets are fluffy.
For the first time in years, I don’t sleep in fear.
Chapter 5
Cillian
The smell of food hits me as I walk down the hall from my home office to refill my coffee. Is it—toast, eggs…?
I stop short at the kitchen entrance.
Nora stands at the counter sliding eggs onto two plates. She’s dressed in clothes that…well, I’ve seen homeless people dress better. Her hair is pulled back. There’s still a slight hunch, an uncertainty, to her posture, but if I’m not mistaken, the hauntedness in her eyes has dulled some.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice quiet but clear.
“Morning.” I walk to the coffee pot and pour myself a refill. I take a sip, watching her over the rim as I drink. “You didn’t have to make breakfast.”
“I wanted to.” She places a plate in front of me. “To thank you.”
For a second, I’m thrown. In my world, people fear me, respect me, obey me—gratitude is unusual.
I drop the contract, freshly delivered by courier this morning, on the table next to me and dig into the eggs. They’re perfect—simple but well-seasoned. As I eat, I rehearse the words in my head again.
Time to get this done.
“Sit down,” I tell her, setting my fork on the side of my plate. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Her face pales. Fear tightens her features. She freezes, muscles locking.
