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The man I was with Norah.
I’ve been telling myselfthatman is gone, not only because the love of my life died, but in the seven years since her death, I had to play the role of king. I closed down emotionally to do it.
I strip out of this suit because my body is on fire. The warrior tattoo on my right arm looks like it’s lifting off my skin, from my veins throbbing beneath. All of my muscles vibrate, and I don’t know what to do with this energy.
My workouts in the early morning keep my body in top-fighting shape. Guns don’t always solve the problem. I still use my fists, just not like Lachlan, who gets hard watching the light leave a man’s eyes as he squeezes his throat.
I never want anyone to believe I can’t also throw a vicious punch or slice a brutal kick to the kidneys. I want people just as afraid of me and what I can do with my bare hands as they are of Lachlan.
Naked, my cock still achingly hard, I step into the shower and throw the levers, bracing under the initial icy sting to lower my body temperature.
Despite being able to fuck for hours, I stroke my cock up and down, moaning from the friction, as scorching water rains down on my stiff shoulders. Jaysus, I can barely get my hand around it tonight. I come shockingly quick, visualizing myself sliding into that bald little cunt I saw and felt earlier, as ropes of my release coat the glass shower wall.
Fuck, I’m in trouble.
The next morning, the sound of high heels clicking on the foyer’s porcelain tiles makes me look up from my coffee. Isabella gracefully enters the kitchen dressed in a tight lavender dress that is way too short. But it looks fucking stunning on her.
“Good morning,” I say with a strong voice, standing at my kitchen island and reading the morning news on my phone.
“Morning,” Isabella says softly and touches her hair. It’s swooped up in an elegant twist that makes her look older.
Her mahogany updo lights up with the kind of shine that creates a halo around her. I don’t think she’s an angel. In fact, she might be a demon for making me face emotions I’ve kept hidden for seven years.
She aligned with the Russians on her own without her father’s knowledge. But confessed to me without pressure. And probably for her own survival.
Ivan Petrov… I’ll deal withthatonce Balor gives me an assessment report on the relatively unknown Bratva soldier who orchestrated to marry the Italian princess behind all of our backs.
“Coffee?” I ask, moving toward the counter where the carafe sits half full.
“Um…” Isabella lowers her eyes. “Can I have an espresso?”
“Tricia?” I ask my house manager, who lingers at her desk right off the kitchen.
She wanders over to intervene. “I can only offer you some French roast at the moment, miss.” Patricia pulls down a bag of roasted beans I wasn’t aware I owned. She doesn’t live here, but she’s worked in this house for nearly thirty years and knows every nook and cranny. “I’ll add espresso beans to the weekly shopping list and purchase a special espresso maker.”
“Thank you,” Isabella says and then pushes off the island. “Is this satisfactory, Kieran?” She makes a small turn, like she’s taunting me or being sarcastic.
“Aye.” I should tell her she looks beautiful, but I don’t know what kind of couple we’re supposed to be.
My parents’ marriage was arranged, but I grew up watching love blossom between them. Maybe it was an illusion. A show they put on for us. I have seven siblings, so they clearly got along in the bedroom.
Ew…
That reminds me to check on Darragh and Cormac, my youngest twin brothers who moved to Seattle to do residencies after they graduated from UCLA School of Medicine. Moving out west reeked of them wanting to get away from the life here to make names and social standings of their own. Not linger at the end of a long line of O’Rourkes, including their sister.
Darragh’s a single father with a daughter—Sophie, my niece. The only wee one in our family is practically a stranger. With the dangers my other brothers and I face every day, I’ll keep anyone at a distance if it keeps them safe. That includes not inviting them to my wedding. It’s part of the sacrifice I make for the power I wield as head of my family and king among the Irish syndicate in Astoria.
After placing a mug of coffee in front of Isabella, Patricia leaves, giving me the side-eye. I already feel outnumbered by these two.
I watch Isabella take a few sips of coffee, and her eyes land on mine. “I still need a phone.” Her mouth opens, and another gulp slides down her throat. The muscles move so seductively.
Fuck.
“Balor will have one for you this afternoon.”
“Can I assume all my calls will be monitored?”
“Who you call, yes,” I answer sharply. “Who will you be calling?”
