Page 32 of Bound Lies

Kieran’s expression is completely unreadable as he regards me, and it takes everything I have not to break eye contact.

There’s something about his dark brown eyes that makes me feel like he can see into my soul.

“You think I’m going to double-cross you?”

“I think you don’t know me, and that kind of distrust can turn ugly, fast.”

He studies me for a long moment before finally lifting the bottle of whiskey to his lips.

My eyes remain transfixed on the way his throat bobs as he swallows, my own going painfully dry as I eye the powerful column of his neck.

“Very well. If that’s what you want, I’ll talk to our lawyer.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re still marrying me.”

“Believe me. I haven’t forgotten.”

I’m not sure anyone is capable of ever forgetting Kieran Sullivan.

Chapter Eight

KIERAN

Riley wants a contract, and something about that doesn’t sit right with me.

She says she wants everything in writing to protect herself from me. As if I’m the one with something to hide.

But if anyone is going to be the one to get stabbed in the back, it’s going to be me. She’s Declan Walsh’s daughter, after all. That blood runs deep, no matter how many pretty speeches she gives about not being like her father.

Maybe Ronan’s ready to forget that because she showed up on his doorstep looking helpless and scared, but I’m not him.

I don’t forget.

Her timing is a little too convenient if you ask me. I mean, she shows up only a few weeks after Ronan shot her father dead, and now my brother is handing over access to our family with only a sob story to go on?

I’m not buying it, and I’m tired of pretending I do.

By the time morning comes around, I’ve already decided I’m not going to let this go.

I show up at Ronan’s office at Sullivan Investments unannounced with a couple of black coffees in hand in the hopes of getting him to finally see sense after a full night's sleep.

The office is vast, with its floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the New York skyline.

I haven’t been here since my father died, and to my surprise, it looks exactly the same. I would have thought Ronan would have gutted the place and brought in his own things, but no.

He’s sitting behind the enormous glass desk in the leather chair that our father occupied for over three decades, which feels like a kick in the teeth.

But that’s an argument for another day.

“You’re not getting out of this marriage,” Ronan says as I walk in unannounced.

He doesn’t even look up from his computer, which only pisses me off.

“I know.” I shut the glass door behind me with my foot.

“Then, why are you here?”