Now I’ll have every Irish student's eyes on me, and Conor will be next to me every time he gets the chance. No freedom, anywhere.
Conor went to Ireland and came back different—but truth is, he changed long before that. When he started learning about family work and what’s needed to be done to get ahead in life. Why he now doesn’t care about who I have to marry, it’s for the family.
Getting dressed in leggings and a hoodie, hair damp, I sneak out. The student food wing is still open for the night trainees, basic food, but warm. And it gives me something to do rather than sitting in my room thinking about him. Thinking about how he would feel against my body, or how his lips would destroy every kiss for me after him.
I take the side corridor, the one that curves beneath the west wing, dark, quiet and maybe being alone for a moment will be good for me.
Then I’m slammed into stone. One step walking, the next pinned. My back to the cold wall, my wrists locked above my head by a hand bigger than both of them combined.
A chest presses into mine, hard, unrelenting. Heat pours off him like fire.
Matteo.
His mouth hits my ear before I can speak. “You’re shit with a blade.” His voice is a low snarl, rough and dangerous and far too close. “It was painful to watch,” he continues, his words curling against my skin like smoke.
I try to shove him off me, but he doesn't move. Not even an inch. His strength is terrifying. His presence even more so. He has the energy around him which is full of rage.
“Let me go.”
“Why? So you can go back to pretending you don’t see me? Or worse, pretending I don’t see you?” His eyes are on mine now. Brown and burning. His jaw clenched, his lip curled like he’s trying to hold back something darker than a smile.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper. Because he doesn’t. All he knows about me is, I’m an O’Brien, that’s it.
“Oh, I know enough,” he says, his voice full of venom. His hand still locked around my wrists. “I know you’re not supposed to want this. I know I’m the last person you should be near. I know that ring on your finger is an insult to your fire.” He leans in closer. “And I know when I look at you, something in me wants to break every rule my family ever gave me.”
His other hand drags down to my waist, then up, slowly, daring me to stop him.
But I don’t.
He grips my throat with no pressure, only control. My pulse kicks under his thumb, wild and trapped.
“Why are you doing this?” I manage to ask.
“Because I can’t stop,” he says, his tone flat as if I’m boring him. “And neither can you.”
His hand slides to my jaw, fingers curling against my skin, tilting my face to his.
Then his mouth crashes onto mine. There’s no warning. No tenderness. Just heat, hunger and rage.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a war, right against wrong.
His teeth scrape. His lips bruise. My knees go weak. I can’t breathe, not because of the hand on my throat, but because of the way he tastes.
Like fire and fury.
I don’t kiss him back, but I don’t stop him.
I hate him.
And god, I want him.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. Dizzy. My back is still to the wall, chest heaving, fingers numb.
“That’s why you’re dangerous.” The words come out in a warning, but I’m not sure if it’s for me or him.
Then he steps away, just like that, leaving me standing there, heart pounding, mouth swollen, hands shaking.
He walks away like he didn’t just shatter my world in a breath. I look around, making sure no one saw, because if they did, every lie I’ve told about not knowing him dies right here.
