Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

M iranda

"Your wife?" My lips are numb at the idea of him married to another woman.

"Dead, love, long ago. I haven't thought of her in years. But when I take you to bed, I might forget to put away the picture of us on our wedding day. It's only there as an excuse to women that I'm not interested in anything more than pleasure. A shield to keep them from asking questions about tomorrow. The tragic widower card is one I've played often over the years. But it's not true. Not when I was married and for less than a few months after her death, I felt more relief than anything and hated myself for it."

His honesty twists me up inside. He's saying what I knew: Declan Kelly wanted only sex from me. He would make it good, we would both enjoy it but when it was over—it would be over. There would be no hand-holding, or buying flowers. I would never have something as mundane as a date night or celebration of an anniversary .

Why did he have to say all of that while he's down on his knees taking care of me the way he says he's never taken care of anyone before? I believed him. He doesn't have to lie.

He reads me like a book. "I want to be honest with you in everything I can be. Because there are going to be times I won't be able to answer the questions you have."

The words slam into me, reminding me of who—what he is. Like the scar tissue along his side, scar tissue that looks like it came from a bullet. I shake my head, looking down at my leg.

Unable to meet his eyes. "It doesn't matter to me what you do or don't do. The scratch looks fine. I'm sure some of the ointment and a band-aid will be good."

I try to move my leg out of his hand. His grip tightens. A sigh comes out of him. "Fine won't do. Hold still. Reading through your file, Miranda Beckett, I never thought you'd be a coward."

I'm stung by the label of coward. It's not fair— "Sonofabitch." I groan as he pours the water over the scratch. It stings like a motherfucker. All I want is to fight him, but he won't let me move an inch.

"Almost done." He mutters as the last of it is emptied. Once the cup is empty, he sets it on the table. Taking the washcloth, he pats it over the scratch gently.

He opens a larger band-aid and squirts the ointment onto it. Applying the band-aid to my leg, he's firm but gentle. The cool ointment feels good against the still-warm scratch. "Thank you."

In a move so graceful I envy him, he's up off his knees with the towel. "You're welcome. I'm sorry about Banshee. I'll make sure Aoife doesn't let her in. "

I want to argue with him. To say something only I can't. All I do is nod. The moment he steps back, I force myself to stand and escape from him, and the tension building all over again.

Taking the stairs at a near run. I fight not to slam the bedroom door closed but give into fear and lock it.

Long after he's climbed the stairs after me and turned off the light in the hallway, I can't stop thinking about him. I tell myself it's wrong, to hold fast against him. He will give up. I don't believe he'll take me by force. It's the right thing to do, not getting involved with Declan Kelly.

If it's the right thing, why do I crawl under the covers and do just what he accused me of? Touchingmyselfto a small, sweet orgasm to the memory of that kiss. Why do I wish the damn cat never appeared? Because the cat saved me from making a huge mistake—didn't it?

Declan

I watch Miranda nearly run from the room as if the devil were chasing her.

She's not wrong.

Nothing happened the way I planned when I followed her downstairs. It started with the gut punch that had me leaving my room without thinking, certain she was taking a chance and running from me. I couldn't allow it. Whatever it took, I would chase her down. Only to find her in the kitchen in a white nightgown so pretty it could double as a wedding dress. She appeared virginal, pure, and everything I wanted and didn't deserve .

My cock ached at the way the nightgown caressed her curves. And my hands went into fists to keep from reaching out to study those curves in detail. Her long hair was down, floating in waves around her beautiful face. No wonder she hid behind those awful clothes. Any man seeing her would do evil things to have her.

I felt her eyes on me. They were just as greedy as mine on hers. Brilliant green glowed as they ran over me.

If I'd been one step closer to her, I would have picked her up and taken her over the island exactly the way I warned her. It would be what she was asking for with those hungry eyes. Only I didn't want her that way.

After it was over, she would go right back to fighting me.

I don't want to fight her. I don't want to tie her down. I want her willing and begging, and nothing less will do. Because it won't be just once or even one night. There's no way this hunger could be satisfied so quickly.

Even if it was a lie, I needed to show her that she could trust me.Not only to give her all the pleasure she deserved, but I also wouldn't hurt her. She didn't need to protect herself from me.

I'm a bastard. If I wasn't, I would let her go—leave her alone. Only I can't. It was too late the moment I saw her. I don't want to hurt her, but I will. She doesn't want to be in my world and I won't leave it for her.

But while she's here, I will take care of her in every way. Which surprised the hell out of me, the same way my need to do it earlier today did. When I told her that since she was in my home, I was going to take care of her—I wondered where the hell the words came from. They weren't something I've ever said in my life to a woman .

While in bed, I prided myself on giving a woman as much pleasure as she gave me. Outside of it, I couldn't care less about their wants or needs because it was only about sex. Even with Orla—it's probably why we crashed and burned so badly.

I wanted to give Miranda anything she needed, anything she wanted to make her happy. It wasn't because I wanted to fuck her, either. There was simply something that happened to my chest every time she smiled at me when she was happy. It was an eerie sensation, all hot and melting and like I was being filled with something I didn't realize I was missing. I needed more of it.

She seemed so small in the large kitchen. The idea of her fumbling around in it didn't sit well with me. I fixed her the late-night snack I often had when I came home and was hungry. Her eyes followed me around the room, clinging to every move I made.

The little liar said she didn't want me while her eyes ate me up. She couldn't really think she would keep getting away with telling me no when her eyes said yes.

Her surprise and happiness when I set the plate of food down in front of her gave me that sensation in my chestall overagain.

Then she was snapping at me, hereyes filled with hurt. I kissed her to take the pain away. That'sall it was supposed to be. Except for the first time…ever, I lost control of the kiss—of myself. She was right there with me, as desperate for meas I was for her.

Hell, I was going to be lucky if I could make it to the island. Only for Banshee to arrive and ruin everything.

The cat was jealous of Miranda. Recognizing the way I only just had that she was different. I've never offered to remove Banshee from the house for a woman. A few times, a woman came over and found Banshee and complained that they didn't like cats or were allergic. I shrugged and told them they could leave if they wanted because Banshee wasn't going anywhere.

If I'd known Bansheewas going to scratch Miranda, I would never have allowed her close. Seeing the blood on her smooth, soft skin turned me savage. The cat was lucky I didn't throw her from the house. It took everything in me not to—fighting to remember she was a cat. Merely a predator sighting competition for resources. To hurt her would do no good, and I needed to focus on soothing Miranda's hurt.

But I made it worse. It wasn't the first time I told a woman all I wanted was her in my bed. There would be nothing outside of it. I never started anything with a woman without ensuring she understood. To not say it would be wrong—make me more of a bastard than I already was.

Yet, as I said it, the words felt wrong. I wanted Miranda every moment of the day. I wanted all her smiles and laughter. The nights wouldn't be enough. Is that why I told her the truth about Orla? Orla, a wife I haven't thought of in years—it didn't matter that her picture was on the bedside table. To me, her picture was no different than the tree in my front yard, a part of the scenery.

When I got the call she died, all I did was let out a sigh of relief. I didn't go to her funeral. While her mother was angry, her da understood.

In the years since I left the picture out, I never looked at it. Or if I did, I didn't see it. I don't recognize the man in the picture. As for Orla, I have no memory of what Orla looked like without the picture. Whenever I thought of her, all I felt was relief she was gone .

Yet, I also played the grieving widower when I needed it. No, darlin', I can't marry you. I buried my heart with my wife, and there's no digging it up again .

I didn't want to do that with Miranda. I needed her to know the truth about the picture she might come across. That the woman in it meant nothing to me. The sadness in her eyes hit me hard when I told her about Orla.

I've been shot, knifed, and broken bones, but knowing I was the cause of any pain to her was more than I could bear. All I wanted to do was hold her, soothe her—to see those hazel eyes go green again for me.

As badly as I wanted to, I didn't dare reach for her. The words she needed to hear, I couldn't give her. While I might want her for more than the nights, in the end, she wanted nothing to do with my world. There's also the no small matter of the discussion I've been having with Eoin Downy out of Dublin for his daughter's hand over the last three weeks.

Despite the absolute shitshow that was my marriage to Orla, I was aware another marriage was in my future. My uncles have muttered louder and louder over the last few years it needed to happen. At first, I was resistant, especially with another woman out of Ireland. Orla's only appeal was how badly she wanted to come to Chicago. Only for her to hate it within months.

However, Brenna Downy is already here in Chicago. She's attending DuPaulnot far from me. Since she's graduating with her degree in a few months, she needs to marry to stay in America—her hope was before I've met the girl twice. While I wasn't excited by how young she is at only twenty-two, she has a good head on her shoulders and isn't a brat. I was honest with her about how badly my marriage to Orla went .

She shrugged off my intent to not be faithful. As long as I didn't strike her and didn't flaunt my other woman, she was fine with it. She had yet to encounter a man who was faithful, including her da, uncles, and cousins. All she wanted wasa few kids and wouldn't demand I be involved.

Her mention of children was the only reason I continued to consider the marriage. Until she did, I hadn't thought of having children in years. They hadn't appealed. Children required time and attention, things I wasn't able togive in those early years.

Yet when Brenna talked about them, the idea appealed in a way it never had.

Now that I had things firmly in control, I had more than enough time. I didn't want to be one of those fathers who had no idea what their children did during the day. To be a stranger to their child the way my da was to me. While I don't resent the way my da raised me, it's not how I want things to be with my children.

The idea of filling this large home with children was something my da longed for. He and my mother were deeply saddened that I didn't come until six years into their marriage and that they never had another child before she died. Da joked he couldn't wait to have grandkids so he could spoil them rotten, then send them back to me. He hoped I would have a son just like me.

It felt like he was cursing me.

I sigh at the idea of a little girl with green eyes grinning up at me. My cock gets so hard it aches. Too damn bad Miranda doesn't want to stay in my world. We would have some gorgeous children. Boys who could argue with the best of them, little girls who would run a ring around me .

But she doesn't. Brenna Downey does, and she fits my world better.

If I weren't a bastard, I would let Miranda go for all those reasons and so many more.

But I'm not going to because I am a bastard.