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CHAPTER FOUR

LIAM

ABOUT SEVEN MONTHS AGO

“Sir,” Jorge announces as he slides a freshly poured glass of Jameson before me. “This is from the blonde in the red dress.”

My eyes drag down the bar, and for a brief, surprising second, I hope to magically find Ella sitting at the other end.

It isn’t her.

Where the fuck did that come from?

It’s been over five years since I’ve seen or heard from her. She packed up her entire life and disappeared without a trace within days of walking from my apartment; she knew before I did that I wouldn’t be able to let her walk away. If I didn’t have tangible proof she was real, I would probably wonder if I had actually dreamed her into existence.

“Jorge,” I huff. “For the love of Christ, if you aren’t fucking kneeling for me, don’t call me Si?—”

“You know I would”—Jorge winks at me—“Sir.” Before I have a chance to argue with his bratty ass, he returns to our paying patrons as Conor and Finn laugh.

I mutter under my breath, “Jesus fucking Chr…”

“I know you fucking suck at this”—Finn elbows me hard—“but this is the point where you walk your ass over there and talk to her.”

The woman lifting her glass and smiling at me is beautiful. That much is undeniable. She’d likely be fun tonight. We might even have fun for a few months. But like Ella put it so eloquently—and I’ve been ruminating about this more than usual for the past few days because of the ache in my left shoulder from a fresh bullet wound—the women I date want to be with me , not worried they’re going to wind up alone and being cared for by my brothers.

“Are you trying to take Declan’s former seat as president of the Grumpy Old Men Blowing Loads of Dust Club?” Finn nudges me again with a chuckle.

After taking a hearty sip of the warm amber liquid, I place the glass back on the bar top before answering, “You do know that I’m not celibate, right?”

“Are you sure? You realize that you’re turning down a definite opportunity to get your dick wet?” Finn raises a brow as he poses the rhetorical question. Making a checkmark with his hand in the air when I don’t respond, he vehemently confirms, “Celibate.”

Squeezing the glass in my hand, I fight the urge to deck him. Finn might be the most vocal about it, but all my brothers give me shit about my virtually non-existent love life. I got a pass for a while— they all know how much I loved her— but that seems to have expired. Apparently, if Declan can move on after mourning his deceased wife, I should be able to get over the woman who broke my heart.

It’s my love life that’s non-existent, not my sex life. By choice, I’m aromantic. Definitely not fucking celibate . I fuck plenty. I just ensure that there is virtually no chance that I’ll become emotionally invested in them. The women I enjoy just happen to be either one-night stands or well-negotiated, short-term Master/slave relationships.

Attempting to change the subject, I gruff, “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?”

“Seriously,” Conor interjects. “You literally just married one of the hottest fucking women I’ve ever seen. Why the fuck are you sitting here with us assholes?”

“I happen to like the lot of you,” Finn replies. “And Cat begged me to give her a few hours to study in peace without me trying to distract her.”

“And you listened?” I over-exaggerate my surprise.

“I did.” Finn laughs. “It was a trade-off. In exchange for her few hours alone, she’s going to read to me when I get home.”

Conor turns on his barstool, and his face contorts in confusion as he exclaims, “The trade is that your gorgeous-as-sin wife is going to read you a bedtime story?”

“Yup. Catlin has to read Lady Chatterley’s Lover for her Lit course. So, she’s been reading it to me.” Finn downs the final sip of whiskey in the glass before him as he stands from his bar stool. His ever-cheeky smile spreads across his face, and he shares, “More correctly, Catlin tries to try to read it while she sits on my face.”

“I really fucking hate him sometimes,” I huff as Declan takes Finn’s now-empty seat.

“Just sometimes?” Declan chimes. “I could beat the piss out of him at least twice a day.”

Taking a sip of my whiskey, I turn to the woman at the end of the bar and am relieved to find that another man has garnered her attention. Hating the semi-accuracy of Finn’s jokes, I slide my half-finished glass before Declan and mutter, “I’m going to head out.”

“Please tell me you didn’t blow off that gorgeous blonde to go home and pine over a ghost,” Conor grouses.

“No,” I scoff. I don’t sit at home and mope over the woman I thought was going to be my wife. Until tonight, it’s been nearly a year since she has flittered through my thoughts. “I’ve just had enough of your ugly mug for the night, and I’m sure Dec is only a drink away from talking about how he needs to knock up his wife again.”

“Already tried this morning,” Declan smirks, “and again before I came to the club.”

“Jesus.” I sigh with a laugh. “I was fucking kidding. You know it can just be a fun kink and that you don’t actually have to make Quinn birth an entire rugby team.”

Leaving Conor and Declan at the bar in the lounge, I walk from the club to head home. It’s nearly 2 a.m., my shoulder is fucking killing me, and by the time I reach my bedroom, all I can think about is stripping out of this suit and climbing into bed. To sleep .

After tossing my suit jacket to the settee at the foot of the bed, I remove my cufflinks as I make my way across the room. I pull the second one free as I reach the dresser. When I pull open the drawer to the valet to put them away, my eyes are immediately drawn to the blood-crusted diamond ring tucked in the corner.

I should get rid of it. Sell it. Pawn it. Or simply flush it down the fucking toilet. Any sentimental attachments I had to it are long gone, like the love I once felt for Ella. These days, it merely serves as a reminder:

Never again.