Page 109 of Godless Saints

His eyes sparked with heat and something far more dangerous. He stayed close, voice dropping lower. “Funny. Real funny. But I’m still feeding you tonight. Tomorrow. Every fucking night you let me.” His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back up. “Get used to it, baby.”

The potatoes rolled in the boiling water. It felt good. That was the fucking problem. Hours ago I'd been naked on my knees with a gun against my neck. Now we were arguing about potatoes.

Cillian set our plates down. Steak, potatoes and vegetables swam in butter. It smelled ridiculous. I refused to say it out loud.

He dropped into the chair across from me. “Jal… meok-get-seum-ni-da?”

My fork stopped mid-air. “You’ve gotten better,” I said, keeping my tone even.

Cillian’s grin turned filthy. “I’d be fluent in no time if you kept motivating me the way you did last night.”

I fought the heat rising in my face and corrected him. “Jal meok-ge-sseum-ni-da. Sharper on the sseum.”

He repeated it flawlessly, eyes locked on mine. “Like that?”

“Better.” The word came out quieter than I intended. “Much better.”

He’d asked me about marriage earlier, like this could last. I still hadn’t told Father. Yet sitting here felt dangerously normal. Maybe I should learn Gaelic.

“Inside the ring,” I said, “it says A chroi. What does it mean?”

Cillian looked up, took a slow sip of wine, and leaned back in his chair. “Gaelic.”

“And?”

“My heart.” His gaze never wavered.

I swallowed hard. Throat suddenly dry. I reached for my own glass and drank.

“Ever since Saint Lucia—”

“Oh god, no.” I set the glass down harder than I meant. “We are never speaking of that night again.”

Cillian tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze pinned me in place. The asshole was enjoying this way too much. “Come on, Moon. You were so fucking cute when you were blushing—”

“I was drunk,” I cut in sharply. “And I wasn't blushing. Jesus Christ. Can we just forget that night ever happened?”

I don’t actually want to forget that night. I finished the last bites and drained my glass. “I’m going to need a lot more of this if you keep dragging Saint Lucia into this.”

He laughed and reached for the bottle, refilling both our glasses. I stood, carried mine into the common room, and sank onto the sofa. Cillian followed and dropped his head into my lap.

“You okay?” The question came out hushed. “We should get in bed. Get some real rest before we head back.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We should.”

We moved to the bedroom. I stripped down to my boxers. The second we were under the duvet Cillian pulled me in, chest to chest, legs tangled. His hand slid up my back, then down over my thighs, careful around the bruises.

I let out a shaky breath against his shoulder. “I was scared earlier,” I muttered. “When they had me on my knees… I kept thinking you weren’t coming back in time.”

Cillian’s hand paused on my hip. He pressed his forehead to mine, breath warm against my mouth. “I’m sorry I left you alone. I shouldn’t have. Not even for twenty minutes. That won’t happen again.” His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual bite. “I’ve got you now. My family has you. Nobody touches you. Not the Carricks. Not anyone.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the line of his jaw. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “We’re okay. That’s all that matters right now.”

He made a low sound in his throat and kissed me. His hand kept moving, stroking over my thigh. I did the same, fingers tracing the graze on his arm and the dark bruise on his ribs.

Eventually his hand slowed, heavy on my lower back. My eyes drifted shut. My heartbeat finally slowed. Another sound outside. My eyes opened. Just the Ashbourne men. I kept telling myself that. Sleep wouldn’t come. Cillian’s eyes were closed, his breathing steady. He looked younger like this. My fingers kept wandering across his skin, tracing old ink. I paused over a small tattoo on his upper thigh. A cartoonish potato with tiny Irish flags.

“Why the fuck do you have a potato on your leg?”