Cillian finally stirs, but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he nuzzles into the crook of my neck, his lips grazing the skin he just spent the last twenty minutes marking. He breathes me in—a deep, shaky inhale—before lifting his head. His eyes are still dark, but the familiar sharpness has softened into something startlingly tender.
"Stay," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
He reaches for the discarded cashmere throw in the back seat, draping it over my shivering shoulders while I’m still straddling his lap. He doesn't move to get dressed yet. Instead, he begins to trail slow, cooling kisses across my face—my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose—before settling on my mouth. These aren't the kisses of a rival or a hunter. They are soft, lingering, and taste of a quiet apology for the bruising intensity of before.
His large hands, which had been so demanding, now move with an agonizing gentleness. He brushes the damp hair back from my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw over and over. "You're okay?" he asks, his gaze searching mine.
"I'm more than okay," I breathe, leaning my forehead against his.
He lets out a long, slow exhale and finally, with a soft grunt of effort, he helps me shift. He lifts me with a focused care, guiding me back into the passenger seat as if I’m something precious he’s just rediscovered. Once I’m settled, he reaches over to adjust the heater, the warm air beginning to circulate around my bare legs.
He takes a moment to pull himself together, adjusting his clothes with steady hands, though I notice the slight tremor in his fingers when he reaches for his seatbelt. He doesn't look away from me for long. Before he puts the car in gear, he reachesacross the console and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine and resting our joined hands on his thigh.
"We have to go back," he says, his voice regaining a bit of its dry iron, though he squeezes my hand to soften the blow. "But we’re not going back to how it was."
I nod, unable to find the words to match the gravity in his tone. He shifts the car into drive, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as we pull away from the cliffside. As the silver line of the sea disappears behind us, I lean my head back against the seat and watch his profile in the dashboard's glow—the man who just showed me a version of 'normal' I never thought I’d see, and a version of myself I never want to lose.
The drive back is quieter.
The road unwinds beneath us in long, dark ribbons, and neither of us reaches for the radio. Cillian keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gearshift, his posture composed again, his breathing steady. If anyone saw us now, they’d see a man in control of himself and his world.
But I know better.
When we reach the estate, the gates open without hesitation. The lights along the drive flicker on automatically, casting clean white pools across gravel and stone. He parks in front of the main house, cuts the engine, and for a moment neither of us moves.
“You good?” he asks, his voice pitched low.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once and steps out. I follow, smoothing my dress instinctively even though it’s alreadystraight. The night has cooled, and the estate feels different now—quieter, watchful.
Roarke stands near the steps. He isn’t pretending not to look at me. His arms are crossed, his stance wide, and his eyes track us from the moment we step out of the car. There’s no accusation in his expression, but there’s no ease either. Cillian doesn’t break stride.
“Evening,” Roarke says.
“Evening, Roarke,” Cillian replies.
Roarke’s gaze shifts to me. “Miss Riley.”
“Roarke.”
A beat passes. Cillian adjusts his jacket. “Roarke’s like that with everyone,” he says lightly, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “If he ever stops looking suspicious, that’s when you worry.”
Roarke doesn’t smile.
I force one anyway. Cillian steps closer, his hand brushing briefly at the small of my back before he withdraws it. “Get some sleep,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow’s busy.”
“I will.”
His eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary, then he turns and walks inside with Roarke falling in step beside him.
I head toward my quarters. The hallway is dim, the lamps set low. I close my door behind me and lean against it for half a second, letting the quiet press in. Then I fetch my burner from its little hideaway. And it’s lit up.
Missed calls. Five. Six. Eight.
All from the same number.
My pulse shifts.
