I don’t know that I could survive it even if I did, because a man loving a woman like that is dangerous.
Terrifying. Addictive.
And when it ends, the devastation that follows is catastrophic.
There was a moment once when I thought Raf might love me even close to that fiercely.
But I was stupid.
Naive.
And I won’t make that same mistake twice.
I look down at my coffee, and the knot in my chest tightens until it’s painful.
I can’t stay in the kitchen to untangle it.
Standing, I grab my mug and leave without a word, needing space, distance, walls to hide behind—anything to keep that ache from eating me alive.
9
RAFAEL
The warehouse reeks of damp concrete and motor oil, but it’s neutral ground, agreed upon because it belongs to nobody, because it has no blood history soaked into the walls.
It’s the kind of place where truces are held, deals are made—and if things go sideways, it won’t escalate into something I can’t contain.
Because it’s not lost on me that when it comes to the Murrays, even with the alliance we’ve sealed through a marriage contract, violence could erupt if anyone so much as sneezes the wrong way.
I stand with my brothers, arms folded, facing the loading door that hasn’t opened yet.
I shouldn’t feel as restless as I do, but I know exactly why my pulse keeps buzzing through my veins like bees trapped inside a shaken jar.
It’s been one week since I got married, one week of sleeping beside Aisling Murray, every night a new form of torture—a torture of my own making.
Because every night, I go to sleep on one side of the bed and wake on the other, with her curves pressed against me, soft and warm, as she breathes that gentle, feminine rhythm that messes with my head.
I don’t think she’s noticed yet.
But it’s only a matter of time, because most nights, I wake to find I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life.
And most mornings, I drag myself into the shower to bring some relief before she wakes, thinking about my wife—my real wife—as I do so, only to have Aisling crash into the vision like a fist through glass.
When I try to focus on Genevieve’s smile, it’s Aisling’s lips I recall.
Genevieve’s voice, then Aisling’s breath. Genevieve’s body beneath mine, then Aisling’s sinfully sweet arousal on my tongue.
And even if I do manage to finish, it’s tainted. Wrong. Dirty. I don’t hate myself for wanting a woman again, for needing that release.
Humans crave, they ache, they fuck. It’s our nature, and I know that.
But I hate that it’s her, the woman who buried a knife in my back and yet hates me for ending things—the same woman who now shares my name, my bed, my air but will walk away as soon as her family gets what they want—who plagues my every thought.
I shift my weight, jaw tightening, dragging myself mentally back into the warehouse, back into the meeting that actually matters.
“Stop pacing,” Miko mutters from behind me, leaning his shoulder against a rusted pillar, arms crossed, looking bored. “You’re making the floor nervous.”
“I’m not pacing.” I am, which is ironic, because usually, I’m the one telling my twin to calm down.