Page 19 of The Ache That Stayed

“Don’t move,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He was wrapping his knuckles, slow and methodical.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t flinch. He just stilled for a moment.

Then slowly, he lifted his gaze to the window in front of him. I saw his eyes in the reflection first. My breath left me in a rush, the room narrowing to those steel-grey eyes—sharp, watchful, predatory enough to make my knees nearly buckle.

It couldn’t be.

He turned slowly.

When his face came into full view—everything inside me locked.

“You.”

CHAPTER 6

The Stranger

The estate smelled like turf, smoke and old money—the kind that clung to your clothes, seeped into your lungs, and reminded you whose ground you were standing on.

Not wealth, ownership.

The kind of power that didn’t need to announce itself. It just existed—in stone, in land, and in the men buried under it.

Sean Coonan—my ex’s father. They called him The Cuckoo because once he fixed on an idea, he didn’t let it go. He drove it into existence through sheer force of will until it was finished, buried, or burning. No one stood in his way.

He’d burn through men, money, and blood until the thing was done. Obsession was his gospel. Deals. Feuds. People.

He didn’t forget. He didn’t forgive. He just… waited until the moment was right to strike. And when it came, he never missed.

My life was proof of what happened when Sean decided he wanted something badly enough. Years ago, he’d looked at his daughter and seen an alliance. He tied us together and called it strategy. She chose another man anyway.

He poured two glasses of whiskey. He never asked. Asking implied choice. He slid one glass toward me. I picked it up and walked to the window, watching the clouds hide whatever sunlight this dreaded weather could offer before winter hit.

The glass was heavy, cold in my hand, the whiskey sharp enough to sting my nose before it touched my lips.

He took a large sip and leaned back in his chair, boots planted wide, king on a throne that had been paid for in other people’s graves.

“You’ve been sloppy,” he said.

“The only reason I tolerate your Sicilian ass is because you married my daughter and kept her with respect. Too bad she had to go around and shag with the Bratva. Good for me, I got an alliance with the Muscovite dogs.”

I took a slow sip. I let the silence work. It always did.

“You killed a man two nights ago,” he continued. “Not for business or territory.”

His eyes flicked up. Sharp. Knowing.

“For curiosity.”

My jaw tightened. My molars ached from the pressure. I took a large sip of the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. I lifted the amber liquid and pretended to look at it through the glass.

“He was asking questions,” I said.

“About a woman,” he corrected.

Recognition settled low in my ribs, sitting there before I could name it. The glass clicked as he set it down.