Oh to be loved

1

Amara adjusted her headphones as she strolled through the narrow streets of Dublin. The cold evening air nipped at her cheeks, but she welcomed it. She loved how alive the city felt, even at night. The smell of roasting chestnuts mingled with the salty tang of the sea in the air. Beneath the rhythmic hum of her music, the murmur of nearby conversations in thick Irish accents made her feel both foreign and at home.

She had been in Dublin for six months, working odd jobs to support her art. It wasn't easy, but she was determined. The world had always told her there wasn't room for Black women in fine art, especially not in Ireland, but Amara had never believed in limitations. Her art—her heart—was boundless.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, snapping her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen. It was a message from her brother, Malik.

*"Need to talk. Meet me at O'Malley's. Urgent."*

Amara frowned. Malik was always getting into something. He had followed her to Ireland just two months ago, insisting he needed a fresh start too, but trouble seemed to follow him like a shadow. She quickened her pace, heading toward the pub.

---

Cillian sat in his usual spot in the corner of O'Malley's, nursing a whiskey. His pale blue eyes scanned the room with the instinctive coldness that had become second nature. The patrons around him were mostly tourists, unaware that the man seated quietly in the corner controlled half the criminal activity in Dublin.

Tonight, however, he wasn't here to deal with rivals or business transactions. Tonight, he was here to meet the kid who had managed to botch a simple job. *Malik Johnson*, Cillian thought with a mix of amusement and irritation. The young American was full of bravado and potential, but his ambition had landed him in a mess bigger than he could handle.

Cillian leaned back in his chair, fingers grazing the scar that ran across his jawline. His past, full of bloody betrayals and hard-earned victories, was etched into every line on his face. He wasn't a man prone to second chances or mercy, but something about Malik's desperation had made him hesitate to snuff the kid out—at least not yet.

His attention was pulled to the door as it opened. A woman stepped inside, her dark curly hair catching the dim light, and her deep brown skin a striking contrast to the pale faces that filled the pub. She scanned the room, clearly searching for someone.

Amara.

Cillian narrowed his eyes. She was younger than he had expected, but there was something about her—a confidence, a fire in the way she moved. She was beautiful in a way that made the air in the pub shift, like everyone suddenly noticed her presence. Even Cillian felt something stir within him, a faint flicker of curiosity.

But that flicker was short-lived. This was a business meeting, not a distraction.

He watched as Amara found her brother seated at the bar. Malik looked worried, his hands fidgeting with his beer glass. The moment she approached, their conversation turned tense. Cillian couldn't hear them over the clamor of the pub, but he could see the frustration in Amara's posture and the guilt in Malik's slouched shoulders.

After a few minutes, Malik motioned toward the back of the pub. Cillian knew what was coming. The meeting had been set for tonight. As if on cue, one of Cillian's men, Declan, appeared at Malik's side, nodding toward the corner booth where Cillian sat.

Amara's eyes followed the gesture, and for the first time, she saw him. Their gazes locked. Even from across the room, Cillian could see the fire burning behind her dark eyes—a fire that didn't belong in a place like this.

Declan guided Malik and Amara toward Cillian's table. As they approached, Cillian straightened in his chair, his ice-cold expression never faltering.

"Cillian O'Rourke," Declan said in his usual gruff voice. "This is Malik and—"

"Amara," she interjected, her voice steady, cutting through the air with unexpected strength. Her eyes remained fixed on Cillian, as if she could see past the fearsome reputation that surrounded him. It was a gaze that didn't waver, even as Declan shifted uncomfortably beside her.

Cillian raised an eyebrow. "I know who you are."

Amara's heart pounded in her chest, but she didn't let her fear show. She had come here to help Malik, not to be intimidated by some mob boss, no matter how dangerous he was. "Then you know why I'm here."

Cillian leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. The weight of his gaze felt like a physical force pressing down on her. "I do. Your brother made a mistake—a costly one."

Amara shot a glance at Malik, who looked away, ashamed. She took a breath, standing taller. "Whatever Malik did, we can fix it. I'll take care of it."

Cillian smirked, though there was no warmth in it. "And what do you think you can offer that would make up for what he's done?"

Amara swallowed, knowing she had no money, no power, no influence. Yet, she couldn't afford to let Malik's reckless decisions drag them both under. She steeled herself. "I don't know, but I'll do whatever it takes. You're not going to hurt him."

Cillian's eyes gleamed with amusement at her boldness. He could sense the desperation in her, but also the strength. It intrigued him, made him pause where he normally wouldn't. He looked at Malik, then back at Amara. A dangerous idea flickered to life in his mind, one he couldn't quite ignore.

"Anything?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Amara hesitated, knowing she was walking into dangerous territory. But she had no choice. "Yes."

A slow, calculating smile spread across Cillian's face. "Then you'll stay with me. One month. No questions, no conditions. In exchange, your brother lives, and I wipe his debt clean."

Malik's eyes widened in horror. "Amara, no—"

"Deal," Amara said, cutting her brother off. She didn't look at him. Her eyes were locked on Cillian's, daring him to see her as anything other than an equal in this twisted bargain.

For a moment, there was silence, thick and heavy between them. Then Cillian leaned back, his smirk fading into something colder, more serious. "You've got spirit, girl. Let's see if you can survive my world."

---

As Amara and Malik left the pub, the weight of what she'd just done began to settle in. She felt the cold air bite at her skin, but her mind was racing with fear and uncertainty. She had made a deal with a man who embodied everything dark and dangerous in this city.

And yet, somewhere deep down, she wondered why, for the briefest of moments, she hadn't felt fear when she looked into Cillian O'Rourke's eyes.

---

The shadow of Cillian's past loomed over him as he watched her leave. There was something about Amara Johnson that unsettled him in a way he hadn't felt in years. But feelings had no place in his world.

He'd figure out what to do with her soon enough.

For now, he allowed himself one final glance at the door, where she had just disappeared into the night.

And then, as always, the cold reclaimed him.