Days dragged like a nail over a blackboard.
I was on edge. Jumpy, cranky, and incapable of taking deep, satisfying
breaths.
Ever since I returned from Cillian's office empty-handed, I couldn't stomach
anything—be it food, coffee, water, or the sight of myself in the mirror.
My mind constantly drifted to a mental video of Byrne and Kaminski
throwing my lifeless body into the Charles River. About Cillian's rejection. The
unbearable sting of it.
I'd forgotten the words to all the songs during circle time in class, almost fed
Reid, who was lactose intolerant, Dahlia's mac and cheese, and mixed kinetic
sand with the real one, making a huge mess I had to stay late to clean up
afterward.
Gray clouds swollen with rain hovered over me as I headed home, jogging
from my bike to my entryway, clutching my shoulder bag in a vise grip. I
reminded myself I had both pepper spray and a Taser, and that there was zero
percent chance Byrne and Kaminski would kill me at my doorstep.
Well, maybe a ten percent chance.
It was probably somewhere around twenty-five but definitely no more than
that.
The minute I got into my building, I reached for the switch. To my surprise,
the light was already on. A strong hand gripped my wrist, spinning me around to
face the person it belonged to.
Fight or flight? my body asked me.
Fight, my brain answered. Always fight.
I threw my bag in the intruder's face, a growl ripping out of my mouth. He
dodged it effortlessly, dumping it to the floor and causing the contents of my bag
to roll out. I reached up to claw his eyes. He snatched both my wrists in one
palm, locking them in place between us before backing me against the entrance
door so we were flush against each other.
"Let me go!" I screamed.
To my shock, the dark, mammoth figure did just that, stepping back and
picking up the pepper spray that fell from my bag to examine it flippantly.
"Cillian?"
I resisted the urge to rub my eyes in disbelief. But there he was, wearing a
designer trench coat, pointy Italian loafers, and his signature go-fuck-yourself
scowl that made my heart loop around like a stripper on a pole.
"You're here," I said, more to myself than to him.
Why? How? When? So many questions floated in my foggy brain.
"I sincerely hope our children won't inherit your tendency to point out the
obvious. I find it extremely trivial." He popped the safety off the pepper spray
and screwed it back right, so the next time I tried to use it, it would be ready to
go.
"Hmm, what?" I swatted away wisps of hair that flopped over my eyes like
stubborn branches in a jungle. The five o'clock shadow veiling the thick column
of his throat made me want to press my lips to his neck.
His imperfections made him intimately beautiful. I despised every second of
being around him.
"Remember I told you I don't hand out free favors?" He rolled the pepper
spray between his fingers, his eyes on the small canister.
"Kind of hard to forget."
"Well, it's your lucky day."
"Allow me to be skeptical."
At this point, I wasn't down on my luck. I was six feet under it. Somewhere
between hapless and cursed.
"I figured out what I want from you."
"You want something from little ole me?" I put my hand to my chest with a
mocking gasp while I tried to regulate my racing heartbeat. I couldn't help it. He
never missed a chance to belittle me. "I'm speechless."
"Don't get my hopes up, Flower Girl," he muttered.
My nickname didn't escape me. The Flower Girl was traditionally the
toddler at the wedding, designed to draw coos and positive attention. The naïve
kid whose job was to walk a straight line.
He stepped toward me, invading my personal space. His scent of male, dry
cedar, and leather seeped into my system, making me drunk.
"For this to work, you mustn't develop any feelings for me," he warned
darkly.
There was no point in telling him I'd never gotten over him in the first place.
Not really. Not in all the ways that mattered.
He removed a lock of damp hair from my temple without touching my skin.
The way he stared at me unnerved me. With cold contempt, suggesting he was
brought here at gunpoint and not of his own free will.
"I will take care of your money and divorce problems. Make them go away.
Not as a loan, but a gift."
My body sagged with relief.
"Oh, God. Cillian, thank you so—"
"Let me finish," he hissed, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. "I
never let a good crisis go to waste, and yours might be very beneficial for me.
You won't have to pay me because your form of compensation will be on the
unconventional side. You are going to be my wife. You will marry me,
Persephone Penrose. Smile for the cameras for me. Attend charity events on my
behalf. And give me children. As many as needed until I have a son. Be it one,
three, or six."
"Anything!" I cried out, rushing to accept his offer before his words sank in.
"I would love to—"
Wait, what?
For a long moment, I simply stared at him. I was trying to decide whether he
was making some elaborate joke on my behalf.
Somehow, I didn't think he was. For one thing, Cillian Fitzpatrick did not
possess a sense of humor. If humor met him in a dark alley, it would shrivel into
itself and explode into a cloud of squeaking bats. For another, more than he was
cruel, Kill was terrifyingly pragmatic. He wouldn't waste his precious time on
pranking me.
"You want me to marry you?" I repeated dumbly.
His face was resigned and solemn. He offered me a curt nod.
Holy hell, he wasn't kidding. The man of my dreams wanted to wed me. To
take me as a wife.
There was only one possible answer for that.