Page 30 of Velvet Chains (The Dark Prince of Boston #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five: Ruby

A t least I had Christmas to prepare.

That's what I had told myself. In reality, all I was doing was spiraling.

The snow had started around dusk. At first just flurries, soft and half-hearted, but now it was coming down hard. Thick, wet, sideways. The kind of storm that made everything quieter and heavier and too still. The kind that made you feel like the only person left in the world.

Rosie was at Julian’s, sleeping over after they saw The Nutcracker. She’d left her glittery tights on the floor of her bedroom and her stuffed dragon curled up under the duvet. The house felt too big without her. Too cold. Too temporary.

And that was the problem.

Because every time the house felt like this—like a hollowed-out husk—I wanted him.

I was supposed to be packing—just a few things to start the slow, clinical move back to Julian’s condo.

A toothbrush…a favorite mug. The framed photo of Rosie in her astronaut costume, still in its mismatched frame.

But I hadn’t touched anything. I’d opened a cabinet, stared into it like it might give me answers, then poured a glass of wine I didn’t even want and curled up on the couch.

I wasn’t looking at the clock. I wasn’t checking my phone. I wasn’t waiting.

Except I was.

Because when the stillness got too loud, when the cold sank in too deep, when I could feel every inch of space around me—I always wanted him.

Kieran was the only thing that made me feel full.

The fireplace crackled across the room, doing its best. I barely noticed it—because outside, a car door slammed. Footsteps echoed on the sidewalk, then the path to my front door, getting closer.

Still, I didn’t move.

Because I felt him before I saw him.

That shift in the air—tense, familiar. Like my body knew before my brain did. My heart picked up. My skin went taut.

Then the knock came. Not loud. Not demanding. Just…there. Like he already knew I’d open the door.

I stared at it. At the quiet, solid shape of it.

Then I got up.

When I opened it, the cold rushed in first—but even that couldn’t compete with him.

Kieran stood in the storm like he belonged to it.

Snow clung to his coat, melting on his shoulders.

His hair was damp. His jaw was bruised—just a shadow of something recent.

His eyes locked on mine, and they didn’t move.

Didn’t flicker. Didn’t blink. He hadn’t called in advance, didn’t bother…

like he’d read my mind and knew I wanted him, needed him.

“Kieran,” I said, breath catching in my throat.

“You alone?” he asked.

Fuck him. He knew I was alone.

He was always, always watching.

I stepped aside and he stepped in, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.

He didn’t take off his coat. Just stood there, dripping snow onto the hardwood, looking at me like I was the only warm thing in the entire goddamn world.

He looked…hurt. Not from the bruise on his jaw, but as if I’d wronged him somehow. I tried not to be pissed about that.

I didn’t want him to leave.

“Are you sorry about what you said last time?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I was just telling you the truth.”

“Did you call Darnell?” he asked. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”

I stared at him. Jesus…the audacity of this man. He’d told me to fuck off the last time I saw him, made completely absurd demands, acted like I was the one who’d hurt him…and now he was–what? Asking for an apology?

“You show up here uninvited, track snow across my floor, and now you want a drink?” I said.

He didn’t smile. Just looked at me like he already knew the answer.

“I did call her,” I added. “We have a meeting scheduled. After New Year’s Eve. She’s on a break.”

“Lucky us,” he said.

He exhaled, slow and rough, like he’d been holding that breath for days. Maybe he had.

“Fuck,” he said. “You really did it.”

“You’re surprised?”

“No,” he said. “Just… scared.”

That caught me off guard. He wasn’t a man who used that word easily. He looked away, jaw tense, hands still shoved into the pockets of his coat.

“She’s going to ask questions,” I said. “About Russell. About the club. About me. About you.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to lie for you,” I said.

He met my eyes again. “I’m not asking you to.”

The silence between us stretched long and strange. The fire popped behind me, a soft crack like a joint dislocating.

He stepped closer.

I didn’t move.

“I came here,” he said, “because I needed to see you one more time before everything changes.”

I swallowed hard. “Why?”

His voice dropped. “Because I miss you. Because I hate this. Because I want to fix it and I don’t know how.”

I stood there, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I told you,” I said, voice low, “this doesn’t end well.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want you anyway.”

I took a single step back. He followed.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.

“I know.”

“You’re going to ruin everything.”

“I know.”

And then he kissed me.

I should’ve shoved him away. I meant to shove him away.

But my hands clawed at his collar instead, yanking him close like I meant to tear him open.

Like I meant to hurt him. He was soaked and freezing, his coat cold against my bare arms, his hair dripping onto my face as he kissed me like he was starving.

Like he’d been dying of it. His mouth crashed against mine, all teeth and punishment, and I bit him back hard enough to taste blood.

He groaned, the sound guttural and raw, and his hands were suddenly under my cardigan, under my shirt, tearing them off like they’d personally offended him.

“You still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against my throat as he licked a line down the column of my neck.

“You’re still ruining my fucking life,” I spat. “So yes.”

“Good,” he growled.

He slammed me into the wall. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make my breath catch. Hard enough that I wanted more.

His hands found my breasts, rough and hungry, and I gasped.

“You’re not wearing a bra.”

“I’m home,” I hissed. “Why would I be wearing a bra?”

He grunted, fingers digging in like he was trying to brand me. “Fuck. You know what that does to me?”

“I don’t care,” I lied. My nails scraped down his spine as I pulled his coat off, then shoved his shirt up and over his head like I was skinning him.

There was a bruise blooming at the base of his throat—proof that someone else had gotten close, that someone else had tried to hurt him—and I wanted to bite it, wanted to leave something deeper.

He caught my wrists and slammed them above my head, his eyes wild, his mouth twisted in something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “Tell me to leave,” he said. “Say it like you mean it.”

I didn’t. Couldn’t.

He didn’t wait.

His knee wedged between my thighs, grinding hard, making me gasp as my back arched off the wall. My pants were halfway down before I could think to stop him, and then his fingers were on me—inside me—without preamble, without mercy.

“Jesus, Ruby,” he rasped, burying his face against my throat, teeth scraping my skin. “You’re soaked.”

“I shouldn’t—” I started, a small, sharp sound escaping from my lips as he thumbed my clit.

“I know,” he said, his hand working in slow, devastating circles. “But you can’t help yourself. Can you?”

I started to say something—something about how this was madness, how it couldn’t keep happening—but his mouth was at my ear, tongue dipping just inside, teeth scraping the lobe, and then none of it mattered.

My head hit the wall. I arched into him, breath locked and thighs trembling, every nerve ending stretched to breaking and begging for more.

“God,” I gasped, and he smiled against my skin.

“That’s right,” he said, barely audible. “Let go. You want to.”

I wanted to. More than anything.

His finger slipped inside me, crooking up and forward with perfect, practiced pressure. My body jerked, the sensation washing out everything that wasn’t him, wasn’t here, wasn’t now. I squeezed his arm, nails digging in, and realized, almost shamefully, that I was already so close.

I was about to pull him down, about to take him to the floor with me, when he slipped his fingers away and dropped to his knees.

I cried out, somewhere between exasperation and relief, not quite sure what I’d do with either. He had me against the wall, skin sweat-slicked and flushed, legs quaking beneath me, my body fighting the tension he kept me aloft by inflicting.

“This what you want?” he asked, voice raw. “You want me like this?”

I couldn’t speak. Just nodded, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he ordered.

“Yes,” I choked. “Yes.”

“Then come.”

He drove his fingers back inside me and fastened his mouth to my clit, tongue relentless, pace brutal. My head hit the wall. I screamed his name—short, sharp, broken. My orgasm ripped through me like a live wire. My knees buckled.

Fuck.

When I finally came down, my head was spinning, blood roaring in my ears—but even through the rush of it, I heard the sound of a zipper. The thud of jeans hitting the floor.

I found myself smiling. “No patience?”

“None,” he said, dragging me into his arms. His body was molten heat beneath cold, damp clothes, his cock flushed and heavy against my thigh. “Not when it comes to you.”

He kissed me—deep, demanding—and I groaned into his mouth, tasting myself on his tongue. He backed toward the door, pulling me with him, and by the time his spine hit the wood, I was straddling him. Skin to skin. Slick and open. Hungry.

His cock slid between my legs, teasing, thick, just barely there.

I could feel every inch of him. Every inch I needed.

“You’re going to kill me,” I whispered.

“You first,” he said, gripping my hips and grinding up into me.

I came again. Instantly. Too fast. Too hard. Shaking against him, nails digging into his shoulders.

But it didn’t end.