She crosses to the bed and slips under the covers on the far side, pulling them up to her chin.
I turn off the lamp and lie down.
A king-sized bed stretches between us—acres of mattress, miles of empty sheets separating her from me.
“Good night, wife,” I say, unable to stop myself.
“Good night, husband.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
Neither of us sleeps.
I know she’s awake from her breathing—uneven and controlled. I’m awake from the way my body refuses to stand down. She’s in my bed, wearing my shirt, and every nerve I have is tuned to her frequency.
She shifts. The sheets rustle.
Her scent is everywhere, layering over mine into something new.
My cock is rock hard. Has been since she walked out ofthat bathroom. I stare at the ceiling and will my body to cooperate.
It doesn’t.
She sighs—not asleep, not close—and the sound goes straight to my dick.
This is going to be a long night.
At a certain point, when her breathing finally evens out, I let myself look at her. I can make out her profile in the dark—relaxed, soft, all her defensive armor stripped away.
I should close my eyes. I have an early morning call with?—
A whimper cuts through the silence, low and broken and animal, rising from deep in her throat.
I’m up on one elbow before the sound fades. Nora’s face is contorted—brows drawn, mouth twisted, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Her fingers claw at the sheets.
“No—” The word tears out of her. “Please, don’t—I’ll be good, I’ll?—”
She’s probably dreaming about him. About Seamus fucking Murphy and his fists. Does she do this every night?
“Nora.” I touch her shoulder, as gently as I can manage with rage narrowing my vision to a red point. “Wake up, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
She thrashes, batting at my hand. Another sound rips out of her—half-sob, half-scream, muffled into the pillow.
“Nora.” Louder. Firmer. “It’s me. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
She jerks awake, eyes wide and unseeing. She scrambles backward, hits the headboard, and throws both arms up to shield her face.
The defensive posture of a girl who’s been abused her whole life.
I don’t move. Don’t reach for her. I hold both hands up where she can see them.
“It’s Cillian. You’re in our home. No one’s going to hurt you.”
She gulps air, each breath harsh and ragged. She looks around the dark room, finds me, and I watch her recognize me—the panic retreating into wariness.
“I’m sorry.” She chokes it out. “I didn’t mean to wake you?—”
“Don’t apologize. Come here.”
She stares at me. I can see the war behind her eyes—the part of her craving comfort versus the part that’s learned comfort always carries a price. Not with me, she’ll learn she can trust me, but I know that will take time and consistency.
