He’s standing a few paces behind me wearing nothing but a pair of swimming shorts. He’s bare-chested and barefoot, still dripping from his swim, but over his arm he carries his folded clothes.
“Fiona,” he says softly, his brows drawing together. “Why are you out here tonight?” He looks around me as if checking for my guard, and when he sees him a good ways off, he jerks his chin toward him. “I’ll take over, thanks. She’s on my watch now.”
I shiver. He’s dismissing my guard. He’s my guard, just like in the old days.
She’s on my watch now.
Desperate longing fills me. Oh how I wish I mattered to him as he does me.
“You’ll freeze your arse off,” I say, and the power of suggestion makes my own body shiver with a chill that runs straight to my core. “It’s cold out tonight. You must be crazy.”
He shoots me a lopsided grin that makes my heart melt. “Aye,” he says. “Thought you knew that.” His jovial look evaporates. “Fiona.”
“What?”
“You’ve been crying.” He looks at once sorrowful and stern, as if he wants to know the purpose of my sadness. “Tell me. Who did this to you?” His tone holds the promise of punishment, harsh and threatening.
How can I tell him that he’s the one that made me cry?
I don’t reply. He doesn’t speak again, but steps even closer to me. I don’t bother to hide my gawking at him, my eyes roving over his muscled, tattooed body, McCarthy family ink that marks him as inducted mafia. The wide, broad breadth of his shoulders, the smattering of dark hair on his chest, and the flat hardness of his belly. Those powerful, corded forearms, and the swimming trunks that are low—way too low—on his hips. My mouth is dry, and I swallow hard, the heat of arousal pulsing through me at his nearness.
My mind is a jumble of thoughts and squeals.
So. Much. Naked. Skin.
I’ve never seen so much of him up close like this. It’s almost too much, overwhelming, like looking straight at the sun.
He’s so tall, I crane my neck when he steps right in front of me, right into my personal space.
“Answer me,” he demands, dark brows drawing tightly over his eyes.
“Did what?” I whisper.
He reaches for my face, his large, rough hand easily twice the size of my own, but freezes midway, as if touching me will turn him to stone. We do not touch.
“Who made you cry?” he asks, barely masking his fury, his need to seek vengeance for the wrongs committed against me.
If ever I loved him, it’s hopeless now.Chapter 4I want to know who did this to her, who made those pretty eyes brim with tears. I’ll make them pay. I’ll make them rue the day they made my girl anything but happy.
My girl.
As soon as I give space to my uncensored thoughts, I regret them. I can’t do that to her. A connection to me means being roped into mob life. And though I’d worship the ground she walks on and take care of her every need, there’s no escaping the sometimes vicious, violent lives we lead.
“It’s no one,” she says, but it’s a lie. I can tell by the way her gaze swings from mine, unwilling to make eye contact with me. But I’ve known her for years, and I know when she’s being evasive. She’s strong-willed and feisty, but I know how to handle her.
“Fiona.” My voice is laced with warning, stern and corrective. I want answers, and I want them now.
I step closer to her, so close now I can see the glimmer of tears on her cheek, reflecting moonlight. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. She didn’t just get choked up or shed a lone tear. She’s been weeping.
I can’t help myself. I reach for her before I know what I’m doing. Before tonight, I’ve never let myself touch her before, though I’ve imagined just this so many times it’s like a fantasy come true. I cup her jaw, so small in my hand. So fragile and soft. I brush my thumb along her cheekbone, wiping away tears.
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing with a soft sigh of relief.
My heart thunders, my skin alive and prickling with awareness and heat. She’s so close I could brush my lips against hers, and I know, I fucking know, that her face would tip up to mine and she’d welcome that kiss.
And I know we’d never be the same again.
We both want this. We both crave this.
I’m a man of the Clan who’s risked life and limb for my brothers. I’ve taken lives and issued threats, and defended my brothers in battle. I’ve put myself on the front line and welcomed danger. I face my fears with conviction and strength, never allowing myself to quake in the face of duty. But this… bloody hell. My hand begins to tremble and my heart races. Keeping myself apart from her’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.