Page 28 of His Temptation

Mrs. Carson stood beside her, fussing with the laces. “Ah, there we are. You’ll be breathtaking, dear.”

Siobhan said nothing, her gaze locked on her reflection.

Daragh stepped behind her, his hands settling on her bare shoulders. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice just for her.

Siobhan swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the folds of her skirt.

Daragh smoothed a hand down her back, tracing the intricate laces. “And when you walk down that aisle, every single person in that room will know you’re mine.”

Her breath caught, and for the first time, she didn’t fight him at least not with words; not with fists; just silence.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the estate chapel, casting warm hues across the polished wood floors. The air smelled of aged parchment, burning candles, and fresh-cut roses, their delicate fragrance nearly drowned out by the weight of what was happening.

Murphy stood at Daragh’s side, his usual stoic expression unreadable. Mrs. Carson sat in the front pew, her hands folded in quiet approval.

Siobhan stood across from Daragh, her posture stiff, her chin lifted in a silent act of rebellion.

The priest—an old, grizzled man who had served the O’Neills for decades—cleared his throat, glancing between them. “We are gathered here today…”

Daragh barely heard the words. He was too busy watching Siobhan, drinking in the sight of her. The way the dress clung to her, the way her lips parted as she inhaled slowly, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides.

When the priest finally asked for her vows, she hesitated.

Daragh’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me remind you who’s in charge here, kitten.”

She twisted her head, her green eyes blazing. For a moment, he thought she would defy him. Then, slowly, she straightenedher spine, lifted her chin, and said the words that would seal her fate.

“I do.”

Daragh’s chest tightened, something dark and possessive curling inside him. He took her hand, slid the ring onto her finger, and let his lips curl into something dark, something full of wicked promise.

“You’re mine now.”

Siobhan’s eyes flashed with a thousand unspoken words, but she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Because she knew. And so did he.

The paperwork was signed, the witnesses thanked, and the priest had left when Daragh led Siobhan back to the house for their first meal as husband and wife. Mrs. Carson had gone all out to ensure it was a feast.

The dining room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting golden hues across the dark wood of the long table. The scent of roasted lamb and buttered vegetables filled the air, mingling with the ever-present scent of the sea that drifted in through the open terrace doors. The meal was rich, decadent even, a celebration of their wedding, though Siobhan looked more like a prisoner being forced to partake in her last meal than a bride dining with her husband.

Daragh watched her as he sipped his whiskey, his gaze steady and assessing. She sat across from him, her posture stiff, her fingers clenched around the silverware as if she had to remind herself not to stab him with it.

“Eat, kitten,” he said smoothly. “It won’t kill you.”

She looked up at him; her gaze sharp and challenging. “That’s debatable.”

Daragh let out a low chuckle. “If I wanted to kill you, Siobhan, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of marrying you.”

She huffed but lifted a bite of lamb to her mouth, anyway. He noted the way her jaw tightened as she chewed, as though she was forcing herself to comply. She could fight all she wanted, but she wouldn’t waste away out of spite.

They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sound the occasional scrape of silverware against porcelain. But Daragh wasn’t a man who enjoyed silence when there was information to be gained.

“Tell me about your father,” he said, keeping his voice casual.

Siobhan froze, the fork halfway to her lips before she carefully set it back down on the plate. Her fingers tensed on the table’s edge.

“Why?” she asked, her tone flat, guarded.

Daragh leaned back in his chair, swirling his whiskey. “Because you don’t talk about him, and yet I know his death must have changed everything for you.” He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of his glass. “I want to know what kind of man he was.”

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