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She’s just as stubborn as she is gorgeous.
I’m just not sure if she knows that the people she’s trying to protect aren’t worth her effort. Cillian Murphy is the kind of man who would sell out his own mother if he thought it would further his cause. He’s stuck in the past and that’s all there is to it.
I wouldn’t describe Roisin as fanatical, even if she’s hidden the truth behind her employment at The Irish Rose.
Of course, I could just be paranoid and it’s all one big coincidence.
If only that was true.
You don’t get to where I am by writing things off when it’s glaringly obvious there’s something going on. If I did, my enemies would have been able to kill me many times over.
I don’t let anyone in, and this is one of the reasons why. It’s why the only woman I allowed close to me was Saoirse. But now Roisin’s in my heart and the deepest recesses of my mind and spirit. I couldn’t get her out if I tried.
I just need her to tell me the truth so I can fix whatever is going on. It’s how I’m going to keep her safe and protect those within my organization.
I strip off the sweatpants and t-shirt I’m wearing, leaving only my boxer briefs on. Roisin is going to learn I don’t fight fair when it comes to her. She’s going to tell me what I need to know.
I won’t hurt her. I never fucking will. Hurting her would kill part of myself and make me into the monster so many people already assume I am.
She hasn’t yet realized she’s my heart. She just happens to be walking around in the world and not beating within my chest.
I could see her trying to build her walls back up, brick by fucking brick, but I’m going to tear them down again. She’ll let me in. She won’t have a choice in the matter.
Anticipation has my heart pounding in my chest when the shower turns off. I sit on the edge of the bed, my arms resting lazily over my legs so my hands dangle between my knees. If I come on too strong, she’ll run.
When the bathroom door opens, steam billows out and I almost swallow my tongue. She’s a fucking vision that calls to me. A siren song I will happily crash my boat against rocky shores to follow.
Roisin’s skin is pink from the heat of the shower and the nightgown she’s wearing is pure fucking temptation. The fabric is a green which almost matches the color of her eyes, but not quite. It hugs my woman’s body and torturously teases me as she takes hesitant steps into the room.
She reminds me of a frightened deer as she prances, testing each step as if she can taste violence in the air. Her wide eyes are a little wild. It should make me want to calm her, soothe her, but I find my blood rushing through my veins too fast to even consider talking her off the ledge.
No, I want to push her over it and then I want to tumble down after her.
What is this woman doing to me?
I hold out my hand for her and beckon her closer. My voice is smokey, like whiskey poured over ice, “Come here,mo rós beag.”
She doesn’t get bolder with every step. When it comes to Roisin, there’s no artifice. Except when it comes to whatever she’s hiding. I can see it eating at her, taking little slivers of her soul.
Her fear is about whatever lie she’s been told she has to hold onto. It’s about the glass that stands between us. She has no idea it’s not tinted, and I can see right through to see her for who she is.
Innocent.
Pure.
Too fucking good for the likes of me.
Someone I should tell to run far and fast away from me. But I won’t.
Because she’s mine.
Her hand is soft, warm, and so much smaller than my own. The difference between us reminds me I need to be careful with her.
With a gentle tug, I maneuver her between my legs. Even like this, she doesn’t tower over me. I place my forehead against her chest, skin against skin. I can feel every thump of her nervous heartbeat. It calls to me.
My hands slide up the outside of her legs, her smooth skin begging to be marked, begging to be branded.
Mine.
