Page 13 of Claiming Genevieve

No, I tell myself resolutely.I am not going to be manipulated into feeling like this is my fault.It feels like that’s happening more and more lately, with Chris, and now Rowan. My jaw tightens, and I refuse to let myself believe that the expression on Rowan’s face is sincere.

“The performance is in less than an hour,” I tell him tightly. “I need to focus. I need to be preparing, thinking about that, and nothing else?—”

“I just wanted to wish you good luck. Or—break a leg.” Rowan smiles, but it’s not the confident smirk from before. It looks weak, as if he’s struggling to keep it on his lips. “Isn’t that what the theatre folk say?”

Again, I feel that pang in my chest. But I can’t back down. If I do?—

He’ll keep reappearing. He’ll keep trying. And eventually…

I might give in.

“You have no business back here,” I say curtly. “You’re not my partner or my patron or my friend. I don’t want you in my life, Rowan Gallagher, and I don’t want you here right now. Am I understood?”

The hurt vanishes from his face, and there’s something else in his eyes suddenly—a gleam of anger—as his jaw tightens. “And where is your partner just now, hm? Your patron? That handsome fellow who showed up that afternoon when we were having ourselves a tiff in the hallway?”

“A—” I blink at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“A tiff. An argument. Whatever you want to call it, lass. The point is, where is he? Not bringing you flowers to your dressing room, aye?” His accent is thicker now, the Irish brogue coming out in full force, and I try to ignore the way it makes me feel.People would pay to listen to him talk,I think nonsensically, trying to focus on my anger and not the warm desire pooling in my core as I think of all the other things he could say to me—whisperto me—in that voice.

“I’m sure he’s going to stop by,” I bite out, and the smirk returns to Rowan’s face, but there’s very little humor in it now.

“You see, lass, I don’t think he will. Do y’know why?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Rowan narrows his eyes. “Because he’s an asshole. I know men like him, lass. They throw their weight around to get what they want, and when they’re bored of it or it’s of no more use to them, they throw it away.”

I flinch. I can’t help it—it’s far too close to how I’ve felt about the relationship lately. Far too close to my own thoughts about Chris’s treatment of me. “And I suppose you’d do better?”

Rowan’s face softens, ever so slightly. “Aye, lass, I would,” he says calmly. “If it’s a patron you need, and that’s why you’re still with the man, then I’d be more than happy to take that place. I’d treat you better, you can be sure of it.”

“You don’t know how he treats me.” I fold my arms over my chest, feeling the silky stretch of the leotard against my skin, and I see Rowan’s gaze sweep over me. His eyes heat, desire and anger pooling together in those emerald depths, and heat blossoms through me, too. I can feel the same sparks between us that I felt that night on the dance floor at the party, and I know Rowan also feels it. I’ve felt it every time we’re close. It’s why we argue the way we do, I’m sure—all that heat has to go somewhere. Better anger than something else.

“I know enough.” Rowan steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, that woodsy, smoky scent filling my senses and making me want to step closer. “All I needed was a look at him, lass, and I can see he’s not treating you the way you should be.”

“And how’s that?” I raise an eyebrow. “Actually—you know what? I don’t care. I meant what I said,Mr. Gallagher. You need to leave. I don’t want you here?—”

“Do you live together?” Rowan asks abruptly. The question is so abrupt that I answer before I can think better of it.

“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.” I frown at him. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“What about a place of your own? A private apartment, in whatever neighborhood you choose. No expense spared. Would you like that? Your privacy, time to yourself, no one to bother you except for when we spent time together.” His green eyes meet mine, and I can see that he’s deadly serious. Both the humor and the rancor have fallen away, and I know this for what it is—the proposal that he’s been building up to make me, what he’s likely been mulling over ever since the party.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I roll my eyes, and Rowan’s expression shifts, his mouth pressing together in a thin line.

“I assure you, lass, I’m not.” He steps forward, another inch closer, and I can feel the heat wafting off his body. I can almost feel what it would be like to be wrapped up in him. “I want you,eala. Badly. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make you comfortable enough to?—”

“Leave.” I bite out the word. “You want me to be comfortable? Leave, and don’t come back. I have no interest in your proposal of—whatever this is.”

“Patronage?” Rowan’s eyebrow lifts. “That’s what that other man is, aye? Your patron? What’s the difference in?—”

“I’ll tell you the difference,” I snap. “You’re mafia, right? Irish mafia. Vincent mentioned it to me the night of the party, when he tried to sell me on this same idea. Well, let me tell you this, Rowan. I have no interest in being a mafia heir’s mistress.That’swhat you’re proposing to me, and that’s different from my relationship with Chris.”

I see him flinch ever so slightly, as if I’ve struck a nerve.

“Mistress?” Rowan frowns. “I’m not married yet, lass. You wouldn’t be?—”

“Right now, maybe.” I glare at him. “Both of my closest friends are married to Bratva men, Rowan. I might not know all the ins and outs of the mafia lifestyle, but I know enough. I know a little of how the families work. If you’re the heir, you’ll be expected to marry eventually, and provide an heir. And then what? I’m not interested in being your side piece, and I’m not interested in being strung along until you get engaged and toss me aside. I want agency in my relationships, Rowan. There’s no agency in that. I’m not interested in being your toy.”

---