I feel tied to him.
I feel the need to go back or face even worse consequences if I don’t.
“Saoirse.”
His fingers intwine with mine, so soft and gentle that I just want to dissolve into him and let out all the pent-up sobs that have been years in the making.
I could. It’d be so easy.
Let him care.
Let him protect.
Let him rescue me.
Instead, I jerk away from him. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
His eyes are regretful but unrepentant. Somehow, the distinction makes sense in my head.
“Okay,” he sighs. “Rory will show you the way.”
I walk out of the kitchen and find Rory standing a few feet away. He’s waiting by the glass panels that line the entire wing of the house.
The view of the lake is spectacular from every angle. But its beauty is lost on me right now. My head is spinning too fast.
“Cillian said you’d show me to a room.”
“Yes,” Rory says with a courteous nod. “Follow me.”
He leads me up the staircase, towards the second story. Most homes would have rows of family pictures lined up along the staircase wall.
But in the O’Sullivan home, there are only exotic tribal masks from cultures around the world.
They’re all beautiful. Clearly expensive. But there’s a certain cold detachment about the collection. It says a lot about the person who put them there.
This is a house where people wear masks all the time. Where no one says what they truly feel.
Except for Cillian.
He’s never worn a mask. He’s shown me his true self since the day we met.
So why can’t I do the same for him?
The staircase ends at a broad landing, but I’m barely paying attention anymore. I just want to be in a quiet, dark space. Somewhere without his overwhelming presence suffocating me.
“Here you go,” Rory says, pushing open a door on the left for me.
“Thank you.” I slip inside.
The door clicks shut behind me and I look around at the room. Like the rest of the house, it’s spacious, luxurious, and pleasantly warm. The bed is the focal point, a massive naked four-poster that sits adjacent to huge bay windows.
I go to the windows and look out. I can see the gardens sloping down the hill into a flat patch of grass that leads to the lake’s edge.
Even when I can’t see Cillian, I feel his presence.
And it’s not just this house, either. It’s the mere knowledge that he’s back in Dublin. Back in my world.
It’s funny, really. I’ve spent years upon years dreaming of the man. But in those dreams, he never came back. That was never really part of the fantasy. Mainly because I knew it wasn’t possible for us to have a future given everything I’ve been through.