Quinn gazes between me and Daire, the look of disgust and hurt etched on her face. She turns on her heel and returns back inside, not once looking back at me.
I turn back to Daire and see the bitch smirking at me. She fucking set this up. Of course she fucking did. Conniving bitch.
Before I can turn and go in search of Quinn, my wife, my father appears from where Quinn just left. "Lorenzo, Prior needs a word. Now," his tone is filled with anger, which lets me know that he witnessed what’s just happened.
Fuck.
This is not what I wanted. God, I’m a fucking fool, that’s for sure.
We enter the bridal suite hours later. Quinn is quiet, has been since I returned from speaking with my father and Prior. Every time I touched her she froze beneath me. Whenever I spoke to her, her responses were cold and detached. In the short space of time that I have known Quinn, I’ve never seen her be so cold and withdrawn. I hate it and I know it’s my own fucking fault.
I glance around the room. There’s champagne on ice and a huge bouquet of flowers on the table. I stand in the middle of it with my jacket off and my tie loosened and I pour two fingers of whiskey. I turn to Quinn and raise the glass in question.
She shakes her head as she sets her clutch on the dresser. Her back is straight and her face is still emotionless.
"Quinn," I say.
"Don't," she grits out, anger lacing the word.
She takes her bag from the wardrobe and goes into the bathroom and closes the door.
I drink my whiskey as I stand at the window looking at the city and I replay everything that happened on that damned terrace.
I should have walked away the moment Daire followed me outside. I know that. I knew she was up to no good, the woman always is. But I’m still pissed with the lack of answers that surround what happened to Orla. I let my clouded anger stop me from reacting when that bitch laid her hand on me.
I should have snapped it the moment she touched me. I should have pushed her away. Instead, she spewed so much hate about her sister and now I’ve got more fucking questions that I doubt will get a truthful answer.
The bathroom door opens, and I turn. My breath catches as I watch her walk toward the bed.
She's wearing a beautiful ivory silk nightdress that clings to every curve of her body. Her hair is down, her face is clear of makeup, which makes her look younger, and the redness around her eyes is visible in the low light of the suite.
She looks at me with resignation. "So," she says, her voice steady and clear. "Is this where I pretend I didn't see you with my sister?"
I set down my glass and my jaw locks. "Nothing happened with Daire."
"That's not?—"
"Nothing happened." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "She followed me out there. The bitch put her hand on my chest. I told her to get away from me."
Quinn looks at me steadily. "And then you saw me."
"Yes."
"If nothing happened, why did you flinch?"
"Quinn—"
"You saw me standing there." Her voice stays flat but her hands are clasped in front of her, white-knuckled. "You saw what I was seeing and you flinched and you didn't come after me. You let me walk away." Her jaw tightens. "So don't tell me nothing happened."
"Nothing happened with Daire," I say again.
She makes a sound that's not quite a laugh. "You wanted her first."
"That's not?—"
"You agreed to marry her. The whole Syndicate agreed, she was the one everyone wanted. She was the choice, and I was the replacement." Her voice is quiet, like she’s saying something she’s believed for a very fucking long time. "Tonight you were standing on that terrace with her hand on your chest and you weren't moving away from it."
"I was talking to her, I should have walked away sooner?—"
