Page 29 of A Trap So Flawless (Titans and Tyrants #4)

“Hmm. Tempting.” I transfer the dice from one hand to the other, thinking. “Alright. How about this? Nothing complicated. We each roll. Whoever rolls a higher number gets to ask the other a question. And the one who rolled lower has to answer it honestly.”

“Sounds like Truth or Dare,” he says.

“Sort of.” I shrug. “We can call it Truth and Dice.”

He holds out his hand. I drop the red die into it.

“You’re red, I’m black. To go with our hair,” I tell him. I toss my die onto a clear area of his desk, then grin triumphantly when it lands with the six side facing up.

“A natural,” Darragh mutters. He tosses down his die. I let out a cackling cheer when he gets the skull.

“Go ahead, then,” he says with an indulgent sigh and a smirk. “Ask away.”

Possibilities run through my head. I didn’t think he’d actually agree to play, let alone that I would win the first round. I settle on something that’s been bugging me for a few days now.

“What did you say to me the other night? In Irish? In the bath?”

His smirk vanishes. Like I’ve pinched my finger and thumb to the candle of it.

“You expect me to remember the shit I say when I’m about to come?” he asks with a bitter sort of bravado. Like he remembers perfectly fine. Like he’s lying.

“Are you afraid?” I challenge. I point at the dice on the desk. “I won this round. Fair and square. You have to answer.”

“Fair and square,” he says sardonically under his breath. “Nothing about the hold you have on me is fair.” A slight pause, then, “I said, ‘ Tá mo chroí istigh ionat .’”

I shiver as the lyrical sounds brush my skin.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” he says with a vicious shake of his head. “You only get one question. You’ll have to roll again and win if you want to ask more.”

“You said I was allowed to make up the rules to this game,” I remind him, narrowing my eyes and crossing my arms.

“I’m instituting one of my own,” he growls in return, snatching up his die.

I grab mine, too, and roll again. Four. Not great. Not terrible. Darragh doesn’t toss his die down as carelessly as before. He actually seems to focus on how he rolls. But even so, he only gets a three.

“What does that phrase mean?” I ask immediately, not even trying to pronounce the beautiful words.

Darragh’s cheeks tighten beneath his eyes.

He rubs at his jaw, like he’s trying to bide his time and find his way out of this.

Then he lets his hand fall. And with a flippancy that seems faked, like he’s protecting himself against the true meaning of the words, he says, “It means my heart is within you. And considering my cock was inside you at the time, that’s pretty much what I was referring to. ”

My heart is within you.

My throat aches. My heart stutters.

Or is it his?

“Tell me what it really means,” I whisper. “Tell me what you actually meant by saying that.”

When Darragh doesn’t answer right away, my whisper turns to a cry. I stab my finger towards the dice, as if they’re my allies in this fight. “I won this round. You have to tell me!”

I sound insane. I’m way more upset than the situation calls for. This is just a game.

But then again, nothing has ever only been a game with Darragh.

Darragh makes a rough sound in his throat. Like a trapped predator snapping its jaws.

He takes a half-step towards the door, like he’s about to walk right out of it, then turns savagely on his heel and grabs me by the jaw.

“It means,” he says, the words pouring out of him like blood, “that if something happened to you, I’d throw myself off a fucking building.

It means that even though I was homeless for a year in Dublin, the only way I think I could be homeless now is if I didn’t have you.

My heart is within you because you’ve fucking stolen it. ”

He gives a crazed laugh. His eyes are green and brown fire. Destructive and starving for air.

“And I can’t even say you crept in and stole it in the night.

I can’t even say you slipped past my defences,” he says, rage and something else – something like agony, something like longing – thick in his voice.

“Because you did it in broad fucking daylight on that rooftop. And now you’ve got me by the balls.

You’ve got me by the throat. You’ve got me by the fucking heart because I love you, Valentina. ”

He’s breathing like he’s just run kilometres to get to me. Swam across an ocean to reach me with nothing but the strength of his own body. And now he’s about to collapse.

I remember what Deirdre told me once about how his father died. And the rules Darragh made for himself as a result. No drugs. No marriage.

No love.

Maybe that’s why he looks like someone’s just forced poison down his throat. Sweat beads on his brow. His jaw works, and the skin of his face is pale. Like his very life has been put at risk, has been betrayed, by the feelings inside him.

Love.

Darragh’s throat contracts as he swallows hard. He slams his hand down on the dice, closing his fingers around them. He pushes the black one roughly into my hand then drops his own onto the desk. He rolls a six.

He doesn’t even bother waiting for me to roll and see if I will lose or tie this round. “My turn.” He breathes in deeply, dark triumph, drawing his victory around himself like some kind of protective mantel.

“What do you want me to tell you?” I hear myself ask. My mind is far away. Stuck on words he’s just said. You’ve got me by the fucking heart because I love you, Valentina.

“Tell me that you’ll marry me.”

My brain hammers to a halt. He digs in his pocket, and suddenly yellow and gold brilliance dominates my vision. The ring is before me, the morning light beaming through it from the side, making inside brilliance erupt.

“That isn’t a question,” I say weakly.

“No,” he bites out, “it’s a fucking plea. I need you any way I can get you. I knew while I bled out on your daddy’s front steps that I would give up anything and everything to keep you.”

He puts the ring onto my left ring finger. Holy shit, are his hands shaking?

“But I need to know,” he goes on, “that I won’t just be Dario Fabbri or Sal Di Mauro to you if I drag you down that aisle. I once thought that having your hatred and your body was enough. But now I know it’s not.”

There’s so much pain in him. I can see it in his face, practically smell it rolling off of him. He’s vulnerable, I’ve made him vulnerable, and he fucking hates it.

“I’ll give up Ireland.”

The sentence slices between us like a guillotine.

“I’d lose it all to marry you. But I need to know that I won’t lose you in the process. Because if I do lose you, pet, then I’m not gonna fucking make it.”

I hear the crackle of tears in my voice when I reply.

“But… But what about your grandfather? What about the townhouse? What about the shepherd’s pie?”

“The shepherd’s pie?” His eyebrows slash down. “What fucking shepherd’s pie?”

“The shepherd’s pie!” I exclaim. I don’t know why this is what I’m latching onto. But some part of my spiralling mind thinks the shepherd’s pie is of vital importance right now. “The shepherd’s pie that you know so well, in the pub where you said you practically grew up!”

Darragh’s hands close over mine.

“Fuck the shepherd’s pie,” he growls. “Fuck the money and the townhouse. Fuck your daddy and mine. Fuck everything that isn’t fucking you.” He releases my hand to cup my jaw. “You told me that you wouldn’t be my mistress. So tell me that you’ll be my fucking wife.”

This is it. Everything’s come down to this. Rooftops and front steps, bullets and blood. So much pain between us. Revenge. Running. Regret.

He’s done so much damage. And so have I.

We’ll probably damage each other again. Maybe do it all our lives.

But even broken things can be beautiful. Even wounds can become a work of art when inked on an arm.

“I’ll marry you.”

Darragh’s whole frame shudders, like he’s just withstood a tempest. Then, with a feral sound, he crashes his mouth to mine.

He kisses me so hard it hurts.

He kisses me like it’s forever.