Page 63 of Stolen Rebel

She looks at me with hooded eyes. “Sleep.”

“Soon. We’ll get you home and settled and then you can get some sleep.”

Cillian returns and thrusts a piece of paper at me. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” I fold it in quarters and shove it in my pocket. I slide one arm around Rebel’s shoulders and hook my other beneath her knees, lifting her easily into my arms. She rests her head on my shoulder and makes this contented sound that seeps into the gaping hole she gouged in my chest when she left me. Maybe I haven’t fucked up as badly as I thought. I can’t bear the idea that she thinks I’m a monster, even if that’s precisely what I am.

But not with her. Never with her. “I’ve got you,” I murmur. “You’re safe with me.”

Cillian snorts. If I wasn’t cradling Rebel in my arms with my soul begging me to never let her go, I’d take out my gun and shoot the fucking arsehole.

I secure her on the back seat again and drive home. She dozes off, but now that she’s seen Cillian, I’m more inclined to let her nap. I carry Rowan up to bed, grateful that my brothers and especially Sorcha don’t appear to be here. Sorcha will try to do that motherly woman thing and barge me out of the way so she can care for Rowan.

Not fucking happening. I’m not letting this woman out of my sight.

I pause outside her room. Don’t fucking ask me why, because I haven’t a clue, but rather than take her in there, I carry on down the hallway to my bedroom. It has a bigger bed. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the reason. Good enough. A bigger bed.

Gingerly, I sit her on the mattress and peel back the covers. I lay her down and remove her coat and scarf, then her shoes and socks. She’s wearing leggings and a t-shirt, which works well enough for a sleeping outfit. If I’m to prove I’m trustworthy, taking off her clothes, if only to put her in a nightgown or pajamas, won’t achieve my aim. Besides, seeing her naked will only torture me, and I’m tortured enough already simply by my memories.

She promptly falls asleep. I sit on the chair in the corner of my room, pinching the bridge of my nose. Rowan’s eyes move beneath her lids, a sign she’s dreaming. At least what happened with Fergal hasn’t given her nightmares.

She mutters something underneath her breath, and then she, clear as day, says Brian’s name. Jealousy is a fiery blaze in my chest. Who the fuck is that guy and what does he have over Rowan that’s made her fucking terrified of him, enough that she refuses to admit her true identity?

I hoist myself out of the chair and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling while Rowan sleeps peacefully beside me. I’ve made such a fucking mess of everything, and in a rare moment of weakness, I admit I don’t know how to fix it.

An owl hooting wakes me. I blink, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I’m wrapped around Rowan’s body like vine, one leg jammed between both of hers, and my hand clamped to her stomach, pressing her against me.

I should move. Should. I don’t. Never have been one to conform to what I should do. If Rowan wakes and tells me to get off, I will. Until then, I’m staying right here.

Sleeping feels like wasting this moment, one I don’t know whether I’ll ever be afforded again. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale deeply. Strawberry, just like I remember. So she used the shampoo I had Maeve buy.

Gradually, dawn breaks, a slice of sunlight flirting with the wooden blinds covering my window. Rowan stirs, and as she shifts, her bum grazes my morning wood. Fuck. Fuck. The temptation to circle my hips, to grind against her like I used to, one that back then would result in her rolling on top of me and taking what she needed is all consuming.

I can’t. I don’t have the right.

It kills me. It fucking kills me. The fire in my belly burns hotter than ever, the violent need to get to the truth, to unpick every stitch until the entire thread unravels. I’m getting closer, but it’s moving too slow. Too fucking slow.

“Liam?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, my voice sleepy even if the rest of me is wide awake. Including my dick. Especially my dick. I untangle myself and roll to the side. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I think.”

“Any headache?”

“No. It’s a little fuzzy, but it doesn’t hurt.” Her breath hitches. “You stayed with me.”

“Yeah.”

The mattress shifts as she pivots. “Do I snore?”

“You talk in your sleep.”

A flash of trepidation crosses her face. “What did I say?”

“You mentioned Brian again.” A muscle in my jaw leaps. I grind my teeth. “Who is he, Rowan?”

She gnaws on the inside of her cheek. “Please.” A whispered plea for me to drop it.