Untamed

by M. O’Keefe

  “Oh no,” Raj jumped in to clarify. “She wants him alive.”

  “What a relief,” I said sarcastically.

  “We’re safe,” Ronan said to me without any comfort. “The marriage made us safe.”

  Raj’s eyes went wide. “You’re married?” he asked with a smile and Ronan nodded. The ring on my finger felt like a chain. “Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad,” Raj said, and Ronan’s lip twisted in what could not be mistaken for a smile.

  “What does that mean?” I whispered.

  “A light heart lives long,” he said, and I couldn’t help it. Wild laughter burst out of me. Raj’s smile faded and Ronan turned to look at me with his cold face.

  “Come on,” I said, punch-drunk from exhaustion and stress and…everything. “You gotta admit that’s funny.”

  His face told me he didn’t need to admit anything. “Any other updates?” Ronan asked Raj.

  “That lawyer you wanted us to keep tabs on?” Raj said.

  “From Bishop’s Landing?” Ronan asked.

  Raj nodded.

  “Wait, you’re keeping tabs on Leonard Bennington?” I asked. It seemed like a million years ago that I went with my sister to Bennington’s office after the senator died. He’d been such a quiet little man, his glasses slipping down his nose. I’d been surprised that the senator used a rather unimpressive lawyer from Bishop’s Landing rather than a big firm out of the city to handle his foundation’s paperwork. But the senator was only predictable in his cruelty.

  “I am,” Ronan said.

  “You were. He’s gone,” Raj said.

  “Gone?” Ronan asked, and the cool mask he usually wore was lifted and he showed real surprise.

  “Car in the driveway, keys in the house. Wife and kids have no idea what happened to him.”

  Ronan sat back, blinking.

  “You think he’s dead?” Raj asked.

  “Maybe,” Ronan said. “But who killed him?”

  There were only two answers. And they were the same people who were after us. I pulled Ronan’s coat tighter around my shoulders.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Poppy

  I suppose I should have been used to it by now, how at nearly every turn I was incredibly wrong about Ronan Byrne. But Ronan’s “apartment” was the top floor of a four-story brick walk-up in Brooklyn Heights.

  Right along the river with views of the city out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the house.

  It wasn’t a shitty hole-in-the-wall or a sleek sky-rise penthouse apartment. No. It was a goddamn home. With rugs and lamps and art on the wall. He shut the door behind me, locking a complicated series of deadbolts. There was a kitchen to my left, a small galley that was impossibly clean. A pegboard wall with cooking utensils and fancy copper-bottomed pans. In front of me were the windows and the lights of Manhattan, surrounded by the dark moat of the Hudson River. A low sofa with blankets folded on the edge sat in front of a fireplace and bookshelves.

  Fucking bookshelves full of books. And I wanted to be mad, because I wanted to be mad about everything. Being mad felt like it might keep me safe. But Ronan hadn’t lied to me or misled me. He just never told me anything.

  Married to an Absolute Stranger: The Poppy Story.

  “It’s nice,” I said, appreciating the warm paint colors that made it seem cozy at night but during the day with all the sunlight that came in through the windows probably looked sophisticated. He didn’t say anything. Just walked through the apartment, opening doors and turning on lights.

  “Do you think someone is here?” I asked. More silence.

  “Ronan!” I snapped as he came back into the living room.

  “Yeah?” He looked at me, his dark hair falling over his eyes. He swept it back with one hand and watched me. “You hungry?”

  I was exhausted. Scared. Sore. I wanted to fuck him and kiss him and smack him.

  “No,” I said. He ducked back into the kitchen and opened the fridge. A smile ghosted over his face. I’d fucked him and he didn’t smile at me like whatever was in that fridge.

  “Niamh set us up,” he said. “I can make you an omelet.”

  “You can?”

  “The monster can cook.”

  “I never called you a monster.” Did I? Maybe I did. I was suddenly surrounded by monsters. They seemed to look a lot like humans. And fuck me like their life depended on it. I really had to stop thinking like that. What happened on the plane obviously would not happen again. Not ever.

  “Sit down on the couch,” he said. “I’ll bring you some food.”

  “I don’t want food.” I was being childish, exerting control where I could.

  “Okay.”

  “I’d like to order some clothes,” I said. “But I don’t have any money—”

  He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Use the black card.”

  An American Express Black card. He found a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote down his address. “Get what you need.”

  I took it all and stood there, awash with uncomfortable gratitude and prickly resentment. “Thank you.”

  “It’s just clothes, Poppy,” he snapped, clearly more comfortable with my surliness than my gratitude. God, we were such a mess.

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t have to do it.”

  “Stop apologizing all the fucking time.”

  “Stop yelling at me,” I yelled back at him, the words ringing through the apartment. I held up the card. “For that I’m going all in at Armani.”

  I whirled like I was wearing one of Eden’s fur coats and sat down on his leather couch. There was a lamp beside me and I flicked it on. The floors were dark wood with a bright red and green and beige rug thrown over it. Everything in the house looked expensive but also like someone had picked it out by hand. Ronan in this house was dangerous. To me. To my heart. Because I wanted the version of him that lived here, that walked these rugs and picked out these photographs to be real.

  To be mine.

  I had to remind myself that the version of Ronan when we pulled up to this brownstone, we all came in together—that was the real Ronan. Walking past men dressed in black carrying guns. They looked like soldiers and they treated Ronan like he was their king.

  “Quiet?” he’d asked one man as we walked by.

  “Yes, sir.” That was the Ronan I understood. But now I was buying clothes on his Black card and there were photographs on the wall.

  How did I make sense of all these versions of him?

  How did I keep my heart from leaping into the arms of a man who fucked me like he needed me to live and now was making me an omelet?

  I wasn’t strong enough to resist this Ronan. I’d be in love by morning if I wasn’t careful.

  On my phone, I scrolled through the internet and ordered pants, shirts, shoes, dresses, underwear (thank goodness) and toiletries to be delivered tomorrow. Here. My new home. Our home.

  Ronan sat down next to me with two plates of food. Big yellow fluffy omelets with cheese oozing out the middle.

  My plate had sliced-up apples on it. I was for a second taken back to the cottage and the farl. One sweet. One savory.

  “We should have stayed in Ireland,” I said, staring at the food.

  He looked up at me, his eyes sharp. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there was nothing there.”

  “Rascal was. The cottage was. You were.” The words came out unprovoked and I looked out the window instead of at him. Stupid fucking Poppy. Stupid fucking heart. I had to stop giving myself away like that.

  “That’s enough life for you?” he asked quietly. Like it mattered. Like my answer had the power to change things. I gave myself points for not looking at him. For not throwing myself in his arms.

  “Poppy? That’s enough for you?”

  I nodded into the silence. Reckless and dumb to the very end.

  His laughter made me flinch.

  And then despite al
l my efforts, my eyes were hot with tears. Every tear I’d held back for years. Every time the senator hurt me and I didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying. With my shoulder I wiped away a tear that slid down my cheek so he wouldn’t see it.

  There. That’s how he feels. Your longings are laughable. Remember this, Poppy. Remember, or every pain you feel after this is your own damn fault.

  “You’re only saying that because you’re scared.” He attacked his omelet with the side of his fork. I wiped my face, brushing away all the tears until they stopped.

  My stomach suddenly grumbled and I took a slice of apple.

  “I don’t think I am, actually.”

  “You’re not scared.”

  “I don’t know, Ronan.” When I looked at him, all I saw was how handsome he was. And how tired. Which I refused to feel anything about. “We’re on the top floor of a four-floor fortress with dozens of armed guards beneath us. I feel pretty safe.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said. His eyes raked me for a moment, reminding me of the plane. Of his touch. His hunger. But then he blinked and it was over and I could tell myself it was a trick of my heart seeing what it wanted.

  Ronan demolished his eggs and I bit an apple in half.

  “What are the pictures of?” I asked, gesturing at the framed black-and-white pictures on the wall behind his shoulder. There was a wind-swept dune. A sunrise over a snow-covered mountain. A woman smiling over her shoulder in the jungle. She was beautiful and I hated her.

  He looked at them like it was the first time and then shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “Aren’t they yours?”

  “No. The apartment came furnished.”

  “You have someone else’s photos on your wall?”

  “All of this stuff is someone else’s.”

  There’s the stone-cold killer I know. Everything fell back into place, these versions of him. I sighed, selfishly comforted and a little sad all at once. I wondered if he didn’t care about his home or didn’t notice. And then I wondered which was worse.

  “What happens tomorrow?” I asked and then pointed my apple at the window and the day outside. “Or today. Or…next. What happens next?”

  “You’re going to bed.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I will,” he said, but I knew he was lying. “We need to figure out what the senator had on both families. How he was working with them.”

  “Blackmail?” I asked. The idea had been spinning in my mind for a while. In his position he’d have a lot of information. The kind that could be weaponized. The apples had unlocked my hunger and I cut the omelet with the side of my fork and put a piece in my mouth. It was more butter and salt than egg and I approved of that ratio.

  “That makes sense for Caroline. She works very hard to control her image.”

  “What do the Morelli’s care about?” I asked. The omelet was too rich and I set down my fork and picked up another apple.

  “Power. Control. Money.” Ronan shrugged. “Hating the Constantines. They care a lot about that.”

  “Then the senator had information that would have taken that away?”

  “Jeopardized it.” He sat back, his plate empty. I saw his eyes glance over at mine and I pushed my half an omelet towards him.

  “You’re not going to eat it?”

  I shook my head. “Niamh has the box from Bennington. I’ll go get it,” he said.

  “He’s really dead? Bennington?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have Raj dig around a little more,” Ronan said, methodically making his way through what was left of my omelet. He ate like he was stoking a fire, without enjoyment. Pure expedience.

  “He was such a no one. Completely innocuous. I can’t believe he was a danger to anyone.”

  Ronan stood up, the plates in his hand. “We can worry about it tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”

  “I need to speak to Caroline,” I said. He shook his head and took the plates to the kitchen. “Am I a prisoner again? Do I need to remind you how that didn’t work out for you last time?”

  By accident, in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, his eyes met mine and I caught my breath. Everything that happened in that cottage was there between us. The chair and the dark bedroom, the secrets up on the hill in the church. The cats. The bath and the whiskey. Then he blinked and just like that the memories were gone.

  “We go to Caroline’s together,” he said. “You’re not to leave here alone.”

  “Ronan. I won’t be a prisoner.”

  “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “You married me. Remember? We already made this terrible sacrifice. The least we can do is take advantage of the protection it provides us.”

  “Our marriage isn’t going to keep you safe. Don’t you get it?” he asked. “Eden was right, we’re leaving leverage every place we go. You are now a tool someone can use to get to me. There are people out there who, when finding out I’m married, will delight in the idea that they can hurt you so they can hurt me.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but then closed it again. His words rang of truth. The silence around us breathed and there were a thousand questions I could ask, but there was only one that mattered.

  “Would it hurt you if I was hurt?”

  “You daft fucking girl, don’t you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Well, you’re yelling, so it—”

  “You don’t know my life, Poppy. You think you do and that’s my fault. I never should have taken you to that cottage. I never should have…” He stopped. The words he didn’t say were ringing in the silence.

  Touched you.

  Kissed you.

  Let you close. Well, you did, I thought. And now we’re here. “You’re an innocent.”

  “Not so much anymore.”

  “Poppy, I’m not joking about this.”

  “I’m not joking either,” I cried. We were both standing, exhaustion and terror making me yell. “It only hurts you, Ronan, if you care about me and you’ve made it—”

  He grabbed me. “If you were hurt, it wouldn’t hurt me.” He leaned forward, his face in mine like he could say these words right into my mouth if he could. Into my brain. “It would kill me.”

  He dropped my arms and stepped away. As far away as he could get from me until he was standing at the windows, looking at the city. I stood there, reeling.

  “Despite what happened on that plane, this marriage is not real. As soon as we’re able, you will divorce me and walk away. And you will never look back.” He turned to me. “Don’t get it turned around in your head; we will end.”

  The ground beneath my feet was suddenly unsteady and my head began to swim. I was tired and hungover and now suddenly so…sad. And I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to change his mind and reveal his heart. But I wasn’t capable of the words.

  “Hey,” he said with his voice low and quiet, like he hadn’t just punched me in the gut. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  I wanted to sink into that brattiness I had with him sometimes. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But I wanted him to wrap me up in his arms more. So, I gave up the fight. I surrendered to the moment and this moment called for sleep. “Where?” I asked.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Like a child I followed him out of the living room, down the hallway, through the kitchen to a bedroom off the back. There was a king-size bed with a black comforter and crisp white pillowcases. The sun was rising through the windows of the front room, but it was dark back here, the sound of the city hushed and quiet.

  “There’s a bathroom through here,” he said, opening a door to reveal a white-tiled room. This was clearly his bedroom. There was a dresser with a silver tray on top of it, cluttered with watches and receipts. Money in a gold clip. The room smelled like him.

  “This is your room,” I said, my skin flushing with the idea of lying down in that big bed of his and him lying down next to me. “There’s a guest room off the living room.
” He answered the question I wasn’t brave enough to ask. “I’ll stay there.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I do.”

  I nodded. He kept putting boundaries up and I was too tired to keep knocking them down. And then he was gone, closing the door and leaving me in the hushed dark of his bedroom.

  All by myself.

  * * *

  Ronan

  I stood outside her door. My door. Our door. Whatever. I stood on the other side of the door, my hands braced on the wall, forcing myself not to go back in there. Not to lay her down on that bed and wrap myself around her. Protect her from everything that was going to come her way.

  “You fuckin’ fool,” I breathed, my head bent, my hands in fists. This was something worse than temptation. Something I’d never felt before, this crushing need for her. I was married to my addiction and I knew nothing good would come of this but still I wanted her.

  I pushed off the wall and walked through my apartment to the guest room off the living room where I had a laptop and a desk, one of those ridiculous bikes everyone loved and a double bed that I kept around for the Irish kids Niamh smuggled out of the UK when they get in too much trouble with the law. Raj used this room for a month a few years ago.

  Outside the door to the guest room, I stopped and looked at the pictures Poppy had asked me about. I had noticed them but never cared. What did a bunch of black-and-white pictures of sunrises and sand dunes matter in my life? I had the sense in Poppy’s life sunrises and sand dunes would rate pretty high. They would be things she needed to be happy.

  I tipped the edge of the sunrise and the mountain, making it straight and then went into my office.

  Every floor of the brownstone was filled with my men. Not Caroline’s. Not Morellis’. Mine. Men loyal to me and to Niamh. There were enough men with guns between us and the front door to make me feel like we stood a chance if any of the Morellis came calling.

  I texted Raj, who was a good lieutenant. Followed orders. Understood the job. All clear, he texted back.

  I sent a text to Caroline. I’m back, I wrote, and even though the number would be private, I had the sense she knew it would be me. You owe me some answers.