Binding Rose: A Dark Mafia Romance(47)

“No. I can take you if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He turns his attention towards the window, his fist flexing and relaxing yet again.

“Tell me, am I to expect my blushing bride to always be this overly devout?” he asks after a spell, still glaring at the passing scenery.

“Is going to church regularly a real indicator of anyone’s faith? If I’m not mistaken, most made men have no qualms committing the most horrendous crimes and murders Monday through Saturday and still find the time to go to church every Sunday morning. I don’t think attending mass holds any weight on whether I am a devout Catholic or not.”

“I’m not interested in other people. I asked you the question,” he says, this time looking me dead in the eye.

“I don’t consider myself to be a religious zealot if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you still want to go to church?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I parrot, aghast.

“Yes, why?”

I take a moment to consider his question since it’s clear he’s not going to drop the subject otherwise.

“It comforts me.”

“Comforts you?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes, it comforts me. I’ve been going to church since I was a child. I see nothing wrong with the ritual.”

“So you go out of habit?”

God, this man is infuriating.

“I go because it makes me feel good.”

He takes my explanation and chews it on it for all but ten seconds.

“There are many things a woman can do on her knees that can make her feel good that don’t involve prayer.”

I hate how my cheeks flame at the innuendo. And I hate him even more for planting the idea in my head.

“I wouldn’t know,” I bite back.

He smirks.

“Maybe one day I’ll teach you.”

“One lesson taught by you is enough for me. Thank you very much.”

“Maybe not for me,” he cajoles, his gaze falling from my eyes and landing on my lips.

We’re so consumed with our banter that it takes us a minute to realize the car has stopped.

“We’re here,” Tiernan announces, opening his car door, looking right as rain while I’m a complete hot mess from the way he was devouring my lips with just one look.

I don’t wait for him to open my car door for me since I’ve learned that such gentlemanly behavior is beneath him. I get out of the car and follow him towards the front door of the large building—the words Avalon Exeter in bold silver letters right above the main doors.

“Good evening Mr. Kelly. Mrs. Kelly,” the doorman on call announces as we pass through the large reception area.

My forehead instantly creases at the unfamiliar greeting. I’m not alarmed at the fact this man knows who I am since there was a picture of Tiernan and me on our wedding day spotlighted right on the front page of every Boston newspaper there is.

I do, however, think that it will take me two lifetimes to get used to being called a Kelly.

“Good evening, Jermaine. Please ensure that my wife’s luggage is brought up in a few minutes. My men will help you carry them upstairs.”

“Of course. Is there anything else that you might need?”

“Yes. Can you tell me if Elsa has been to the apartment today?”

“She has, sir.”

“Good. Then that is all.”

Jermaine gives him a pleasant nod but doesn’t spare me a second look.

When we get to the elevator, I watch Tiernan insert a key to gain access to the top floor.

“Who is Elsa?” I ask curiously, since the name doesn’t sound Irish to me.

Latvian, Polish, maybe even German, but definitely not Irish.

“My housekeeper and cook. I told her to have everything in order and a meal ready for us when we arrived.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip.

“Who did you think she was?”

“I don’t know. A friend. A colleague. A mistress even. I don’t know that much about you to make an informed guess on who you let into your apartment.”

“Aside from Elsa, no one else,” he rebukes dryly, making it painstakingly clear that he wished things would stay that way.

I really don’t understand him.

If bringing me home is this much of an inconvenience to him, then why do it?

Unless, of course, this is his olive branch. His subtle way of wanting to give this marriage an actual shot. If that’s the case, then I will milk this opportunity for all it’s worth.

When the elevator doors swing open, we step right into a living room with bare floor-to-ceiling windows all around, giving way to the city’s lights beyond them. My shoulders slump as I take in his sanctuary. The apartment is extravagantly cold and practical. Just like Tiernan. The colors of the interior design never stray from the basic white, black and grey—a bachelor pad if I ever saw one.

“There is the kitchen.” He points to the open-space kitchenette filled with the latest gadgets that I’m sure only Elsa ever uses. “This, of course, is the living room.”

“It’s nice.”

It’s not.