Wicked Savage: Chapter 46

The next day, the chaos of Conall feels like a distant memory as I glance at Cillian just in time to catch Fia’s wide-eyed expression.

She looks like she’s about to set him on fire with her glare. My kinda girl.

“What did I do?” he asks, genuinely perplexed, while Adora pours tea into our bright pink cups—but really, it’s just water.

I bite back a laugh as Fia crosses her arms, her little face scrunched with disapproval. “You have to pull the chair out for the princess before you sit down!”

Cillian shakes his head in mock regret, playing along as if this is the most serious offense imaginable.

“My apologies,” he says solemnly, then steps forward and pulls my chair out with exaggerated care.

But Fia isn’t satisfied. Her brow lifts, unimpressed.

“What did I do wrong now?” he asks, exasperated but amused.

She lets out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head as if he’s utterly hopeless. “You didn’t kiss her hand! Every prince kisses a princess’s hand.” To drive her point home, she smacks her forehead.

I pinch my lips, enjoying this way too much. Cillian exhales, then takes my hand, pressing a soft kiss to the top of it. But when his eyes lock with mine, something shifts.

The air around us thickens, my skin tingling from the warmth of his lips. The playful moment turns electric, and suddenly, I’m left frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze.

Clearing my throat, I settle into my miniature chair, but the moment isn’t lost on me. And when Cillian lowers his large frame onto a tiny hot-pink kiddie stool across from me, I can’t hold back a chuckle.

Fia raises a brow at him. “Did you tell her how pretty she looks?”

He leans in toward her, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper. “I’m really not good at this, am I?”

She shakes her head, mouth pinched in disapproval.

Cillian turns back to me, eyes dark and full of intent as he reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You’re my every dream come true, Dinara Quinn.”

My stomach does a flip at how genuine it sounds, like he means every single word. I can barely breathe. He doesn’t let go of my hand, running circles over my skin, making my heart race faster.

“What would you like with your tea?” Adora asks, grinning as she holds up a tray of make-believe pastries.

“The chocolate cake, please,” I manage to say, trying to sound unaffected, even though my heart is threatening to leap out of my chest under Cillian’s hooded gaze.

“Coming right up.” She places a plastic slice of cake on my plate before turning to her uncle. “And for you, sir?”

Cillian taps his chin dramatically. “I think I’ll have whatever my wife’s having.”

“Good choice, sir,” Fia adds. “But we only have one piece of chocolate. You get strawberry instead.”

“Strawberry it is.” Cillian chuckles, looking back at me with a grin as we both pick up our forks and start nibbling on our desserts.

As soon as his fingers release mine, a tiny part of me wishes he hadn’t let go.

The girls pour more “tea” into our cups as we continue eating, the room alive with their laughter and the soft clink of plastic cups.

When we’re done, Fia and Adora grab a small kiddie music player. A catchy little tune fills the room, and the girls turn to Cillian with one of those knowing looks.

“Oh, right…” Cillian clears his throat, standing and offering me his hand with exaggerated formality. “Princess Dinara, may I have the honor of this dance?”

I can’t help but laugh at how royal he’s being. As he stands there, hand outstretched, I wonder if this is what life would look like if we had kids. He’s so natural with them, so tender and playful. My heart melts.

“You may, Prince Cillian,” I tease, slipping into the role with ease as he helps me to my feet.

The girls giggle, their laughter bubbling through the air like magic, making the moment feel all the more special.

Cillian curls an arm around my back, holding me close, his other hand in mine as we begin to sway together, lost in the music. My head rests against his chest, and for a brief moment, it feels so right, like we’ve been doing this for years. A quiet sigh escapes my lips as I close my eyes, letting myself feel the warmth of his embrace.

The song changes, but we keep dancing, moving in perfect harmony, oblivious to everything but each other. The moment stretches on, peaceful and perfect, until the last notes fade away.

“We had a lovely time,” I tell the girls as they start gathering their things. “Thank you for being such wonderful hostesses.”

“Come back anytime!” Adora calls, her voice practically sparkling.

“Alright.” I smile.

“Bye!” Fia waves as they start to head out, leaving the music player on, but in the last second, she turns around and says, “Thanks for the money, Uncle Cillian!” Then her little face freezes, eyes wide. “Uh-oh…”

“Wait, what money?” I glance between them with a narrowed stare.

“Whoops.” Fia grimaces, covering her mouth. “Gotta go. Bye!”

And with that, she dashes off with Adora, leaving us behind in a trail of giggles.

I turn to Cillian, popping a brow. “Did you actually pay them for this?”

He scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Well…”

I shake my head, laughing. “You planned this?”

Cillian shrugs nonchalantly, his gaze intense and unshifting. “Is that so bad? It got you to dance with me, didn’t it? You almost looked like you actually liked me again.” He smirks, and my stomach flutters.

I’ve always liked you…

Did he really do all this just to be close to me? The thought makes my heart ache in the best way. He steps closer, his arm winding around me, pulling me flush against him.

His voice drops to a low whisper, stirring something deep inside me. “I’d do anything to make you see me the way you once did, Dinara. Moy teli mir, v tvoikh glazakh.”

Air stalls in my lungs, and I almost can’t believe my ears. “You learned Russian for me?”

He nods, looking at me with a mix of affection and determination.

“Who taught you to say that?” I wrap my arms around his shoulders, impressed by his effort. “You’re not half bad.”

“Konstantin,” he admits, his lips curving into a half-grin.

“Are you two friends now?”

“Not even close,” he chuckles dryly. “But he’s…useful.”

I scoff. “I’m sure he’d love to hear that.”

“Are you gonna tell him?” he teases, dropping his lips close to mine.

“Of course not. I’m Switzerland.” My tone grows raspy, butterflies spreading in my stomach.

“That’s a good girl.” He draws me into a soft kiss.

And when he pulls back, I feel an emptiness lingering where his lips just were.

“Oh, by the way…” he adds. “I had my people look into your father. He wasn’t at the wedding. Not on any of the cameras, anyway.”

I should be relieved. I want to be relieved. But I’m not.

I just nod. “Thanks for looking into it.”

He notices the shift in me immediately.

Gently, he cups my face in his hands, his eyes soft with concern. “What did I tell you about thanking me for taking care of you? Don’t do that. Understand?”

I nod, leaning into his touch, surrendering to the comfort he offers. With every passing day, he chips away at the walls I’ve built around myself, and I can’t deny I feel that spark between us burning just as bright as it once did.

That evening, Cillian’s dining room is transformed into a romantic oasis.

Candles flicker across the long marble table, a beautiful white floral arrangement in the center. Candlelight casts shadows over the rich dishes Mary has laid out. Every single one of them is my favorite. How he knew, I have no idea.

But the biggest surprise is that he made all of it. From scratch. I still can’t wrap my head around that. When Amara asked to hang out after the tea party, I had no idea that she and Fionn were in on the surprise Cillian was planning.

I can’t help feeling so adored as he takes my hand and leads me to my seat.

“The food looks incredible. How did you know what I liked?”

“A man has to keep some secrets to himself.” He smirks, pulling out a chair at the head of the table, me on his left as he starts to fill my plate.

He watches me cut into the steak, like he wants to see my reaction.

“This is dangerous.” I pop the piece into my mouth and groan. “If you keep cooking like this, I might expect it all the time.”

He leans back in his chair, his whiskey swirling in his hand. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

There’s something in his tone that makes my stomach tighten. A quiet confidence maybe, or the affection there. Because this is what he’s been doing lately. Little things, thoughtful things, trying to win me over without forcing it.

After everything he put me through, I never thought I’d be sitting here, letting him.

And what scares me most? It’s working.

We continue to eat, conversation and laughter filling the room. Before I can think too hard about how easy it’s been to fall back into our relationship, one of the staff walks in, carrying something on a silver tray.

My breath stills the moment I see it.

A medovik: Russian honey cake. My absolute favorite, the one my mother used to make for us.

“It’s your mom’s recipe.”

Emotion clogs my throat. It’s been years since I’ve even seen this cake, since I’ve tasted the layers of honey-soaked goodness she used to make for me as a child. I lift my gaze to his, my vision blurring.

“You…” I swallow hard. “How did you…”

His expression softens with something deeper. “Konstantin shared the recipe. Figured I’d give it a shot.”

My heart thumps louder in a way that feels dangerous. Because this isn’t just some grand romantic gesture. It’s intimate. It’s proof that he cares. That he’s trying, really trying.

I shake my head, forcing a watery laugh while he cuts each of us a piece. “You really made it from scratch?”

It’s not easy. There are ten layers on this cake.

He nods, watching me carefully. “Took me a few tries,” he admits, lips quirking. “But I got it right in the end.”

I reach for the fork. The first bite is warm and rich, melting on my tongue, tasting like home. Like love. I exhale shakily, setting the fork down before meeting his gaze again.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “This means a lot to me.”

Something shifts in his expression, something unreadable, but I don’t miss the way his jaw flexes, like he’s the one struggling to keep it together.

Then his smirk returns, slow and deliberate. “Come here and bring your plate.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He leans back in his chair, patting his lap. “Sit with me.” His voice dips, smooth and commanding, and something tightens in my chest. “Let me feed you.”

A slow heat creeps up my neck, but the look in his eyes—dark, unyielding—makes it impossible to say no. Biting my lip, I pick up my plate and move toward him, settling on his lap. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in.

“You’ve always felt right in my arms,” he murmurs, reaching for the fork while my entire body prickles.

He cuts into the cake with deliberate slowness, lifting a bite to my lips. I part them instinctively, letting him slide the fork past them. The honey-soaked layers dissolve on my tongue, and a soft hum escapes me.

Cillian’s free hand skims along my thigh, his fingers brushing over the slit in my dress as he feeds me another bite. Then another. Each movement is unhurried, decadent, like he’s savoring every second of this—watching me, feeling me melt against him.

By the time I’ve eaten nearly all of it, my body is thrumming with awareness, my chest rising and falling a little too fast.

Cillian sets the fork down, his lips ghosting over my ear. “Dance with me.”

Before I can agree, he shifts, effortlessly lifting me as he stands. My hands grip his shoulders as he sets me on my feet. His thumb grazes my cheek, his gaze searching, completely unnerving me as he holds out a hand for mine.

And of course, I take it.

Music hums from his phone as he selects a song, then pulls me close, one hand resting at my waist, the other holding mine against his chest. The slow melody wraps around us, and we sway together in the dim light. His touch is warm. Grounding. Protective.

For a moment, I close my eyes, letting myself sink into him, into this. The safety of his arms, the quiet intimacy of it all. My cheek rests against his chest, my fingers curling against the fabric at his back.

When I veer just enough to look up at him, his gaze is already locked on mine, the tension between us thickening, crackling like a live wire.

Dark. Intense. Unrelenting.

His palm slides up to my nape, fingers threading into my hair, and he leans in, his mouth hovering just above mine.

A tremor runs through me, making it hard to focus on anything but the nearness of him.

And right before his lips touch mine, he murmurs, “Taim i ngrá leat.”

I have no idea what it means, but the way he says it—low, full of passion—tells me it has the power to ruin me. And when his mouth finally captures mine, I let it. Because in this moment, I know for sure—I’m falling for him all over again.

And this time, I might not survive it.