Page 65 of Claiming Genevieve

Rowan sets his fork down slowly. “I wish you had,” he says finally. “I can’t say I’m not more than a wee bit upset about it too lass. But you have things you’re upset with me for, too, I reckon. So we’ll leave it at that. I’m glad you feel safer now. You are.”

I nod, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. “So, how do we deal with it—with him? Chris? What are you going to do?”

Rowan’s face immediately smooths. “You let me worry about that, lass,” he says firmly. I open my mouth to argue, and he shakes his head. “I mean it. Let me handle it, Genevieve.”

“But—” I look at him. “I want to know what’s happening.” More than that, I want input. I have a feeling that I know whatlet me handle itmeans, the kind of solution that Rowan will come up with, and it still makes my stomach twist to think of someone being killed because they threatened me.

But I also don’t want Chris hounding me for the rest of my life. I don’t want to keep having to fear for my life. And I don’t know how to reconcile all of that.

Everything I’m thinking must show on my face, because Rowan reaches over and touches my hand. “He tried to kill you,milseán.”

I bite my lip, looking away. “I know.”

Rowan’s hand curls around mine. “You are my wife, Genevieve. And I said if he ever touched you again, I’d kill him.” His hand tightens. “His life was over the moment he hired someone to kill you.”

I swallow hard, pulling my hand away—not because I don’t want him touching me, but because suddenly, Ido. And I don’t know how to feel, because I shouldn’tlikethe idea of my husband being willing to kill for me, should I? That he’d kill a man for touching me? For threatening me?

The maid comes back with my tea, and the moment is broken. Rowan looks away, back at his phone as he reaches for his fork, and we sit there in silence, the last thing he said hovering between us.

His life was over the moment he hired someone to kill you.

—

The restof the first week in Ireland passes, and with every day, I’m more and more aware of why Rowan chose this place as his home for so long. The weather is unpredictable, chilly for early summer, and sometimes rainy and windy, but there’s a beauty to the landscape and the architecture and everything else around us that makes me aware of how difficult it must have been for him to leave it all. I’ve seen it in him, too, since we’ve been back—as if a tension that I hadn’t even realized was present has drained out of him.

We fall into a rhythm together over those days. We eat our meals together, and Rowan spends some hours in his office, talking with his father and doing what he can to help run things from here. I get to call Evelyn and Dahlia and reassure them that I’m safe. Rowan avoids talking to me about Chris, but I don’t push. A part of me doesn’t want to know what’s happening. I know that when we go back to New York, that will likely mean that he’s dead. I’ll have to come to terms with how I feel about that then, but for now, I don’t want to think about it.

What Idohave to think about is the fact that we’re still supposed to be trying to get pregnant. I wonder, when I check my tracker and see that morning that it’s ticked over to the color indicating my fertile period, if Rowan might simply wait for me to say something, and if I don’t—ignore the fact that we haven’t had sex yet. I can’t help but feel that it will mean something if we sleep together here. That it will be different.

I know from the moment I walk into the dining room for breakfast that he’s tracking the days as carefully as I am. His gaze sweeps over me as I walk in, something hungry and primal in it, and a shudder runs down my spine. He looks at me as if he wants to eat me instead of the meal, and I swallow hard, retreating to a seat on the other side from him.

He looks at me, and I think he can see my reticence. “Good morning,” he says finally, and returns to his food, finishing it in silence before getting up and leaving the room.

I don’t see him for the rest of the day. I spend my time wandering around the estate, knowing that I’m putting distance between us on purpose, trying to avoid Rowan until I can figure out how I feel about all of this. How I want to go about tonight. I’m trying to make sure I can put it offuntiltonight. And I have a feeling that he’s avoiding me, too…but for different reasons.

He’s avoiding me so that he doesn’t lose control.

I can feel the tension between us during dinner, strung taut as a vibrating wire. We try to make small talk over the meal, but it feels awkward. I can feel the heat sliding over my skin every time Rowan looks at me, every time I take a sip of wine, and his gaze flicks to my mouth. I’m aware of the time ticking down until it’s time to go to bed, of every passing minute, and I know he is, too.

The air feels too thick to breathe by the time we’re done eating. Rowan finishes his glass of wine, sets down his napkin, and pins me with a look so hungry that it makes my stomach clench with a fearful awareness of just how much he wants me. How long he’s been waiting for this.

He stands up, slowly, and takes a slow breath as he looks at me. “Upstairs,” he says finally, his voice a low command—and it startles me. It’s the first time he’s ever spoken to me like that, ever demanded anything. But I can hear how thin his patience is stretched in the way he says it, hear the hoarse rasp of lust—and arousal floods me as I slowly stand up, too.

No. This has nothing to do with lust. Nothing to do with desire. It’s a job. An obligation?—

I repeat that to myself, over and over, as we head upstairs. I feel like I’m trembling from the inside out, more nervous than I’ve ever been before. I can feel every part of myself wanting to let go, to turn and reach for my husband, dig my fingers into his shoulders, and drag him to me. I want to kiss him the way he kissed me in his office, on the plane, feel him against me, hard and eager and desperate for me. I want him to fuck me, to show me all the things he’s been teasing me with since the night we met—and I clench my teeth, shoving all of those desires down, forcing them back into the dark.

This marriage is temporary. This arrangement will end. And if I let myself taste what Rowan has to offer—if I let go, I’m terrified I’ll never find anything that can satisfy me ever again. That I’ll spend the rest of my life wanting something I can’t have.

I’ve already lost one thing that meant everything to me. I can’t lose anything else.

And after all the mistakes I’ve made recently, I’m terrified I’ll make another.

Rowan pushes open the door to the master bedroom, and I follow him inside. Someone built a low fire in the fireplace, making the room pleasantly warm, and Rowan turns to me as the door shuts behind me, already reaching for the buttons of his shirt. His eyes rove over me again, still hungry, and I swallow hard.

“Remember, the rules?—”

“I know the rules.” His voice is sharp, harsh, full of need and an emotion I can’t quite place. “But for the next week,wife, I get to have you in one way, at least. And a month was too long to wait to be inside of you again.”

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