Page 78 of Chains of Recompense
RAFAEL
Despite the tension humming between us, Aisling’s smile is shockingly warm and genuine as I follow her into the limo.
The space is uncustomarily crowded between my four brothers and all our wives, and for the first time, it dawns on me that while I was the first to get married, I’m the only one who’s not madly in love with their wife.
Sure, my wife drives me to the brink of insanity on a daily basis, but what Aisling and I have is so far from what each of my brothers have found, it makes my chest ache with longing.
In truth, I don’t think even Genevieve and I found that kind of happiness.
She was sweet and charming, easy to get along with—and willing to play the pawn in my scheme to torture my father slowly and silently with the knowledge that he couldn’t use me as his own chess piece.
And Aisling couldn’t be more opposite.
She’s contrary, hard headed, outspoken, and sometimes, downright belligerent.
She questions me at every turn.
But when it comes to the game of chess we’re playing, she feels far more like the queen than any other piece I’ve played with.
It’s going to take every ounce of my cunning and wherewithal to maintain control of the board with her on it.
As if hearing my troubled thoughts, Aisling looks up at me through a curtain of her fiery tresses, her blue azure eyes coquettish as they work like an electric shock straight to my heart.
Then she’s glancing away as if she didn’t notice.
Skirts gathered carefully in her hands, the red satin catching the light like spilled wine, she manages to settle onto the bench seat, leaving me just enough room to close the door behind me with a solid thud, sealing us inside a cocoon of leather, low laughter, and expectation.
Sandro and Evi take the seats beside us, Miko and Anika beside them, while Leo and Gio occupy the opposite side with their wives.
My brothers are already pouring the champagne like this is any other social outing and not a calculated display of power—a statement to Chicago society that the Chiaroscuros are still here.
Aisling settles back against the seat, her thigh brushing against mine in the cozy space.
The heat of her bleeds through the fabric of my pants and straight into my bloodstream, though she hardly seems to notice.
I keep my face neutral, spine straight, hands folded like I’m not suddenly acutely aware of every inch of her body.
She smells incredible—sweet and cinnamony, familiar enough to make my jaw tighten and my cock start to swell against the zipper of my slacks.
Clearing my throat, I lean forward to subtly adjust myself, then snatch the champagne flute Sandro passes to me and down a large gulp.
Aisling pointedly turns her attention to the women, leaning forward slightly as Anika speaks, eyes bright with genuine interest. That’s the part that keeps throwing me. It doesn’t seem like my fake wife is performing with them.
There’s no calculation in her expression, no guardedness. She laughs easily, touches Evi’s arm when she congratulates her on the dress, listens like their words matter.
Because they do.
Watching Aisling fit in so seamlessly makes something in my chest ache in a way I don’t like. It feels earned, organic, like she belongs here with my family in this strange, fractured orbit we’ve built around survival and loyalty.
Her knee presses against mine again as the limo turns, the contact lingering just long enough to make my pulse jump. I don’t move away.
Neither does she.
When I glance at her, for half a second, something unguarded flickers across her face—awareness, maybe even a flicker of heat.
Then it’s gone, replaced by a cool, knowing calm as she looks back at Evi like she didn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire.
We arrive at the gala amid flashing cameras and murmurs of recognition, the paparazzi out in full force for the night’s prestigious event.
