Even in sleep, he comes across as an alpha male. A true predator.
His face is made up of hard angles—wide, chiseled jawline shadowed with stubble, aquiline nose, those heavy auburn brows that furrow even in rest like he’s dreaming of battle. His lips are slightly parted, reminding me of how warm and pleasant they feel on my skin.
The sheets have slipped down to his waist, exposing his bare chest. He sleeps shirtless, every ridge and plane of muscle in full view. His shoulders are broad, his chest solid, his abs defined in a way that suggests hours of physical labor—or violence. There’s a scar on his ribs, pale and jagged, that looks like an old stab wound.
Another on his shoulder. This one puckered like a gunshot wound. Evidence of a life I don’t fully understand yet.
He has more than a dozen tattoos. I count them up, admiring the ink in a way I never have either time we’ve had sex. He has the Callahan family crest on his left pec. A fierce-looking lion on his bicep. Other marks that come up to his neck that I don’t know the meaning of but seem to delineate something.
Normally, I hate tattoos. I’ve always said I’d never get one myself—why ruin a Lamborghini by slapping a bumper sticker on it?
That was what Dad always said about them.
I guess… I formed my opinion based on his. It’s why I’ve always preferred clean-cut types like Heath.
The kind of guy that’s clean shaven and well put-together enough for a Tom Ford ad.
But Ronan couldn’t be more different. He’s rough and craggy, with hair he runs his hand through a hundred times a day and a lopsided grin that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.
I hate how attracted I am to him.
Hate that my body responds to him even when my mind screams that he’s the enemy. That he’s controlling and possessive and everything I never wanted in a husband.
My body doesn’t seem to give a damn about any of that. She and my pussy want what they want…
An hour later, we both get out of bed and start our day. The silence between us is heavy but not as hostile as before. Almost… aware.
I notice he watches me the same way I watch him—furtively, when he thinks I’m not looking. His gaze follows me as I move around the room, selecting clothes from the closet, unwrapping my hair at the vanity.
It’s not all I notice; there’s the tent in his pajama bottoms. I only catch a glimpse before he shifts to adjust himself then disappears into the bathroom.
When he emerges minutes later, his hair is damp from his shower and he has a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Killian’s handling your security today. He’ll be taking you shopping.”
I glance up from where I’m seated at the vanity table. “Shopping?”
“You need to buy a new outfit for a family event. The holidays are coming up.”
I sigh, already exhausted by the thought. “I didn’t realize the Callahans were so celebratory.”
“We are if we’re able to make it about alcohol.” He casts a half-grin in my direction then disappears into the closet to finish changing.
Killian is stern-faced and stony at the bottom of the staircase. He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and a black jacket, his bent nose and scarred knuckles marking him as exactly what he is—a rough and tumble enforcer for the Irish Mob.
We drive to SoHo in one of the Escalades. I’m seated in the back, staring out the window as the city passes by.
My phone buzzes in my lap. It’s Chantal texting me. We’ve hardly talked since that night at Axis.
How’s the marriage going, babe?
I hesitate, then type back.
What do you think? I’d do anything to be rid of him.
Her response comes almost immediately.
I might have a permanent solution to your problem.