Page 75 of A Love Most Fatal
My eyes meet Nate’s for a second only before turning my gaze back up to Cillian’s.
“It’s not safe for him yet,” I say.
“Who cares? So he dies, you owe him no loyalty. You shouldn’t have brought him into your home in the first place.”
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat at the thought.
“We look good together,” Cillian says. “Hot.”
“Perfect reason to spend the rest of our lives married to each other.”
“Is it him?” Cillian asks, all levity gone. I don’t play dumb. “He’s a loser, Vanessa. What could he possibly have that you want?”
I shut my mouth and look away from those hurt icicle eyes. Cillian is a hardened man, one who knows better than anyone the kind of things I’m up against daily. He knows me, is loved by my family, and could accept me for all my flaws and misdoings. He wouldn’t offer a strategic advantage, but by all other accounts, of course I should accept his offer.
I look up at him again, his lips, his wide jaw, the scar beneath his left eye, and let myself imagine it. The white dress and black tux, him dipping me back for a kiss, rough hands roaming all over me. It would be a life of relative safety and probably one where I’d be happy enough.
It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? And it would solve so many problems; no mothers on my back, no risk of the betrayal that could come from marrying a stranger, and finally an heir. I haven’t had a relationship in years, just flings to let off steam every now and then. It could be nice to have someone.
“Ness,” Cillian whispers. His face is so close to mine, just waiting for me to close the gap between us.
A throat clears just beside us, breaking the bizarre moment. Nate stands, hands out of his pockets. “May I cut in?”
I look to Nate, holding my breath, and nod, already detaching myself from Cillian. Nate doesn’t take his eyes off me while a muscle in Cillian’s neck ticks. If there weren’t more than a hundred of the city’s most refined individuals around us, I would fear for Nate’s safety.
“Thank you for the dance,” I tell Cillian. “I’ll think about what you said.”
Cillian doesn’t speak, just cooks Nate beneath a hard stare before stalking away.
“Thank you,” I say. Nate slides one hand around my waist and lightly grips my fingers with the other. “It’s not that I needed saving, I just?—”
“It’s alright,” he says, and we dance lightly in a swaying circle. “It looked like he was talking business after that’s all you’ve done all night. You’re just tired.”
“Do I look tired?”
“No,” he smiles. “I just see it.”
I don’t ask what he means because he seems to see everything. He observes the workings of things and slips seamlessly into them. It’s why my mother loves gardening with him, why the kids adore playing with him. He sees people and meets them where they are.
“You see a lot of things,” I murmur. “I feel like I can barely see myself these days.”
He pulls me closer and shushes me. My chest is up against his like it was Cillian’s, but he’s so much warmer, like a blanket wrapping over me. I let myself melt into it.
“You’re holding your breath,” he says. “Tell me a story.”
I breathe out and he doesn’t mention that it is a bit shaky.
“Have you been to the chapel on Eighth?” I start. I can’t think about marriage, weddings, baptisms, anything, without thinking about that church.
“The tall one? Has a bell tower and stained glass?”
I crack a smile. “You’re describing every Catholic church in the city. But yes, it has those things.”
“What about it?” Nate prompts.
“Everything has been there. Willa’s wedding, Artie and Angel’s blessings, my father’s funeral.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” he says.