Page 50 of Ruthless Savior
"Trapped." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. My tone is vicious, and I know it, but I’m too angry—at myself and at her—to stop it. "You want to know what trapped looks like? It looks like being chained to a bed in one of De Luca's mansions while men bid on your virginity."
She flinches like I've struck her. "That's not?—"
"That's exactly what this is." I move closer, close enough to smell her perfume, clinging to her coat in the icy air. "You think this is some kind of game? You think my men are out here for decoration?"
"Of course not, but—" Tears well in her eyes, and I feel her hurt like a punch in my chest, but I don’t stop. It feels like something has been cut loose inside of me.
"But nothing. You will stay in the house, you will follow the security protocols, and you will not put yourself in situations where my men have to choose between doing their jobs and keeping their hands off you."
The words come out harsher than I intended, loaded with implications I didn't mean to say out loud. Leila's eyes widen.
"You're jealous," she whispers, shock coloring her words.
“I’m trying to protect you,” I bite out.
"You're jealous." She stares at me. "You saw him talking to me, and you?—"
"I saw one of my men standing too close to someone I’m supposed to be protecting." I grit my teeth, refusing to let her take this conversation down a path I can’t let myself follow. "Stay in the house, Leila. Don't make me post guards inside to ensure you comply. My men will take you back."
I turn and walk away before she can respond, before I can see the hurt in her eyes any longer, before I can do something stupid, like pull her into my arms and kiss her again the way I want to so badly. I nod to Finn as I walk past, and he and three of the guards walk to Leila, intending to escort her back to the mansion.
Inside, I pour myself a whiskey and try to forget the way she looked when she realized I was jealous. The moment when she realized I still want her, despite everything I’ve said.
And I was. I wanted to carve that boy’s eyeballs out for looking at her like she was something he could enjoy seeing. I want to cut his fucking cock off so he can’t touch it while thinking about her.
The whiskey burns going down, but the chaos in my head lingers, the torment of jealousy and desire and guilt that is slowly suffocating me. I drain my glass and reach for the bottle, knowing that tomorrow I'll have to face her again, and that it will be harder after what happened tonight. Knowing I have to put an end to this so I can send her home, and that the mansion is going to feel like a mausoleum after she’s gone.
Knowing that I want her so badly it hurts. But letting myself have her could destroy us both.
13
RONAN
The sound of my father’s Mercedes SUV pulling up into the courtyard in the morning makes me swear aloud in the silence of my office. I hadn’t known he was coming back, and I’m sure that’s by design—it’s possible that he never left Boston after the meeting yesterday, just to make me think I wouldn’t have to have another conversation with him for a while, so he could spring it on me.
I watch from my office window as he emerges from the backseat, his silver hair gleaming in the weak December sunlight. Even at sixty-two, he carries himself like the king he's always been in this world—spine straight, shoulders back, every movement projecting power and authority.
He should have gone back to Miami. I know that’s where he’d prefer to be. But he’s here, and that means that my morning has just gotten a whole hell of a lot worse.
Padraigh doesn’t bother knocking, just walks into my office like he owns it. Which, technically, he still does. "We need to talk."
"I figured as much, or you wouldn't still be here. Did you go back to Miami at all?"
He ignores me, taking the seat across from me in front of my desk. He unbuttons his expensive overcoat, but doesn’t remove it. The message is clear—this won't take long.
"I've been thinking about our conversation yesterday. About the situation with the girl."
I draw in a heavy breath. "Her name is Leila."
"I don't care what her name is." His voice is sharp, cutting. "What I care about is that my eldest son is making decisions with his dick instead of his brain."
The crudeness of the statement is designed to provoke, to make me defensive. It's an old tactic, one he's used since I was a teenager. But I'm not sixteen anymore, and I don't rise to the bait.
"My reasons for protecting her have nothing to do with sex."
"Don't they?" He leans back in his chair, studying me with his sharp gaze. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're willing to risk everything we've built for a piece of ass."
“Don’t talk about her like that.” The words come out harder than I intended, loaded with warning.
