Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Like I said, whatever Finn Byrne had done, he’d royally fucked up in targeting Ivan. It was only a matter of time before Ivan ended this for him once and for all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Niamh
I didn’t need Ivan to tell me how to be nice. Even though I’d not experienced a lot of “nice” growing up, I hadn’t lost the ability to be nice myself. Rather than allow Peter and I to drift apart, I decided to do something different. I decided to become his wife.
It sounded strange, but it wasn’t. What this entailed was simple. First, I made sure I was awake before him, and I set the coffeepot on, cooked breakfast, and also prepared his lunch. I took care of his laundry, cleaned the penthouse, and did some shopping with my guards. With his birthday three weeks away, I wanted to start preparations now.
I didn’t have a clue what to get him as a birthday present, so I’d decided to buy him a wedding ring. Yes, I knew it was corny, but that’s what I decided. A wedding ring, because he didn’t have one, whereas I did.
In a weird way, I was hoping he would get the message—that I was here to stay. I was not going to step away from our marriage. If Peter didn’t want to be set free, then I wasn’t going to allow him to be. In my head, it sounded romantic, but on paper, it kind of made me feel like a bitch.
I did love Peter. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
After Ivan had left, I couldn’t help but think back to that moment when he chased after the car to protect me, to save me. I didn’t know if he acted like that because he was doing his job, or if it was because he did in fact have feelings for me. I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t going to dwell on it either. I’d made my decision and this time, I was sticking to it.
My leg had also started to heal, and it had been a few weeks since my tattoo. The scab was almost gone. The right treatment had meant for an easier healing process, at least that’s what I liked to tell myself.
So, one evening I’d made seared steaks and potatoes, and I met him at the door. My guards, like always, left, and I helped take Peter’s jacket.
Each night, he’d grab me around the waist, pull me in close, and kiss me. We hadn’t had sex since the last time, and not with the ink on my leg, that was proving to be a bit of a pain. Now that it was all healed, the last few weeks had been a lot of fun. I’d played the role of wife, but it didn’t feel like I was playing. It felt right.
He wrapped those large arms around me, pulled me close, and took possession of my lips. That butterfly flutter in my stomach came back to life, and I closed my eyes, loving the feeling and not wanting it to go away. I loved him and I was done fighting it. I wasn’t going to leave him. That was my choice.
Ivan and the Volkov could have everything that was Byrne. I’d never been a Byrne, it was just my last name because my father had insisted on it. All his kids had to have his last name. I guess it was the only decent thing my father had done.
Peter pulled away from me and I couldn’t help but lick my lips. “I, uh, I made dinner for you.”
I took his hand and led him away, going toward the dining room, where I had already set the table.
“If you’d like to sit and pour yourself something, I’ll be back with the food.” I turned to leave.
“Do you want me to pour you a glass?” he asked.
“No, I learned my lesson. Me and alcohol are done.” I had promised myself I was never going to end up like my mom and I was sticking to that promise.
I went back to the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, took out the two prepared plates, and then I carried them to the table. I placed one in front of Peter, and then I put mine down in my place. I rushed back to the kitchen, took off my mitts, turned off the oven, and returned to the dining room.
Peter had poured me a glass of water, and I picked it up, offering him a smile as I took a large sip. He’d poured himself a glass of whiskey, and trust me, I wasn’t even tempted.
I didn’t get to lose myself in drink. No, what I got was to be embarrassed and the memory of having no control. I had no idea what to say to Peter. I waited as he picked up his knife and fork, cut through the steak, and took a bite.