Page 141 of Carnal Wagers

The pilot on the intercom. Right.

My teeth ground, but I gave in and thumped back against the headrest. Our relationship drama did not need an extra spectator. Paulie and Devin were already too much.

We flew over orange wooded areas, cut off by the coast and scattered between towns, roads, and agricultural fields. Then the ocean bays disappeared from view to the east and sheared through the land from the south like beastly talons, carving a range of wide rivers. The helicopter chased a coastline with pocket beaches and rocky headlands that led inland to salt marshes and grasslands or coastal cities. South, beyond the body of water, a sprawling city sparkled on the horizon under the beaming sun, as far as the eye could see, in what I recognized as Long Island. The view was quite different from what I was used to along the French Mediterranean—thousands of homes and apartments colonizing the entirety of the crystal-blue shores against the hills leading to inland France.

It should have been mesmerizing and stolen my focus, but every time my gaze sought out Cillian, I found him still as a statue in the seat beside me, completely despondent in the way he studied the world below. The panoramic landscape became the last thing on my mind.

After his declaration of love last night, this was sending mixed signals. Unless he changed his mind. Unless his love was nothing but a fleeting feeling he realized wasn’t that deep now that bruises marred my neck and reduced my allure. My hand reached up to my throat, to the knotted silk square scarf and the discolored aching skin it hid, but Cillian gripped it. He gave it a little squeeze and tugged it into his lap, clasping his own tight around mine.

“Don’t.”

That one word, muffled and compressed by our noise-cancelling headsets, offered more reassurance than I thought I needed. I took my first deep inhale since this feeling of wrongness hit this morning. Worry colored his face, and I leaned my head against his shoulder, careful to mind the headset.

“We can still turn back,” he said, his voice still too dead for my liking.

“Will it change whatever is wrong?”

Apparently, that was the wrong question to ask, because whatever concern I spied froze off him and chilled the entire cabin. My hand remained held in his, but the comfort it offered was as chilly as his demeanor.

“Is it this?” I gestured to my neck with my free hand. “Is this why you can’t stand to look at me today?”

The way he tracked the movement, then purposefully glared at me with the driest look known to man that clearly said, “You’re not that dense,” shut down my sudden lapse of insecurity. I wanted to slap myself. I should have known better.

After living with him for over a month, the veil of modesty had long ago been pried away. He’d seen me at my lowest, sick as a dog with snot trickling down my nose. He’d heard me at my worst, where even behind a closed bathroom door, certain sounds still made themselves known. We woke up together, me bare-faced, hair a ball of tangles, groggy-eyed, and yawning, yet he told me several times I was most beautiful in those moments: relaxed and carefree. He was probably the first person, other than Maeve, who put a stronger value on my presence than my appearance.

“Is it work?”

He gave me nothing but a roll of the eyes, then stared out the windshield. Not that, then.

“Is it Brody?”

His jaw ticced, but he gave no other hint of discomfort. Still, it had to bother him that the two of us were at odds, given how close the three brothers were.

“Don’t worry, I always give as good as I get. Next time, he won’t catch me by surprise, and I’ll return the favor. We’ll be even and move on from this.”

“He won’t touch you again. Ever.”

“Oh, I know. I won’t let him.” He gave me little more than a robotic bob of his head in response, and it toyed with my insecurities. “It’ll become an annal in our history together we’ll avoid telling our future kids about their uncle.”

He showed no reaction to the surprise mention of kids. Not a jolt of apprehension, nor a hint of excitement. The lack of both worried me more than if he had outright rejected the idea.

“You have to give me something. Is it us?”

His shoulders squared with a heavy inhale, chest swelling. Bingo.

To anyone else, he simply adjusted himself in his seat, but I knew better. Cillian O’Leary was preparing himself for battle. He automatically widened his stance with his brothers whenever they argued with him, same as he did before meetings and business dinners with politicians and mob associates.

“How is it us? I don’t understand.” We’d been in a good spot last night, a great spot, until Brody ruined it. “Something happened. Stop keeping it in and tell me.”

“Not. Now.” His voice rumbled dangerously low through the headset, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he met my gaze, but there was nothing loving about it.

It seared me to the core, but I kept eye contact, unwilling to be the first to break when he’d given me nothing to go on. Problem was, when his focus shifted back to the window, any satisfaction at a victory faded away as quickly as it had come.

The desperation for answers gnawed at me, but I held my tongue and bit it bloody to stop myself from airing any more of our dirty laundry before we got a moment of privacy. I didn’t know when, or even if, that would happen.

After more than an extra hour of tense silence, we landed at a small airstrip in the middle of a grassy field surrounded by woodlands on two sides. He shouldered a bag, grabbed my hand, and led us out of the plane, over to a hangar-style building as though I had no choice in the matter.

“Ready to talk now?” I seethed.