Page 48 of Desecrated Reign

“Aye, you do. But with Gabriel MIA, we need to get a move on. Not only would it be best if Saoirse claimed her crown and took over as head of the Leinster Syndicate—providing her with more security—but we could use the news of your marriage to lure Gabriel out of wherever he’s hiding.”

I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip. “Do you actually think he’d fall for it?”

“Gabriel is as narcissistic as they get,” my mam warns. “He wouldn’t be able to help himself. I can guarantee he’ll show up, but we need to be ready when he does.”

“So”—I lean back on Rohan’s couch and fold my arms across my chest—“say we agree to this ridiculous plan, how exactly do you plan on making it work?”

“With these.” Lorcan holds up two phones, and a crooked smile tugs on his lips.

“Are those…?” Rohan reaches forward, taking one of the phones from Lorcan, inspecting it with furrowed brows. “How did you get them?”

“I’ve had Donnacha’s since the warehouse, in case we needed it to convince Gabriel he was still alive, and I took Gabriel’s the night of the meeting. Call it insurance. Fortunately for us, Gabriel contacted Donnacha last night from a burner phone, and although he hasn’t disclosed his location, we have contact. One push of a button, and King will know exactly when his son’s wedding is.”

Rohan cranes his neck towards me, his piercing green eyes speaking a thousand words, all of which agree with Lorcan and this ludicrous plan. My shoulders rise with a breath, and I hold it in my lungs as I mull over their suggestion. Do I want my wedding day to become a fiasco? Not particularly. But I also want to rid the world of Gabriel King, and if it means I need to play along to ensure he’s delivered, then so be it.

“Fine. I’m in.” I agree, rolling my eyes at the beaming smile that takes over Rohan’s face. “But under one condition.”

“Name it, doll. And I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

“I want Beibhinn as my bridesmaid.”

My mam barks out a laugh. “She’s already waiting at the dress shop. She appointed herself as soon as we told her and Fiadh about our plan last night.”

“What if I didn’t agree to your plan?” My lips quirk to the side, pretending to be insulted.

My mam and Lorcan share a look, one I should find insulting, but I can’t, even after they fall into laughter.

“We love you, honey, but we also know how much you love him.” She tips her chin towards my future husband. “We knew you’d say yes because when you have the kind of love you both share, there isn’t any doubt, only certainty.”

* * *

“Are the penises really necessary?” I cover my face with my palm as Beibhinn waves a cardboard dick through the air in the middle of a classy bridal store, voting against the puffy dress I’m currently wearing.

“Why is that even a question? Of course they’re necessary.” Side by side, she holds up her two penis paddles—one large and girthy with a thick vein and the other resembling an uncooked pig in a blanket. Oh, and did I mention she’s also drawn faces on them. “We don’t have time for a bachelorette party, so penis-shaped scoreboards were the best I could do. If I think the dress is boner worthy, Big Dick Eddie”—she sashays, holding the throbbing Thor in front of her face—“also known as BDE, will grace you with his erection.”

“And if we hate it,” Avie’s voice floods the room from the iPad on the seat next to Bev, where she is holding up her own set of penis paddles, “we will hold up Sammy’s Sad Sausage.”

“See”—Beibhinn waves a hand towards virtual Avie—“she gets it.”

Shaking my head, I ask, “Where did you get those? You’re on the other side of the country.”

A wicked and devious smirk crawls across her mouth. “Beibhinn emailed me the PDF. And you’ll detect no lies when I tell you I’ve never printed something so fast in my life.”

“I feel hard done by—pun intended.” Fiadh examines her BDE paddle. “This is the biggest dick I’ve ever held.”

Beibhinn scrunches her nose at her mother’s insinuation while my mam pats her friend on the shoulder in commiseration. “You poor bitch. Lorcan is—”

“Nope.” I cover my ears, not wanting to know how big my— Nope, I can’t even finish that thought.

“Saoirse, she’s thirty-six, not dead. Like it or not, your dad is ploughing your mam nightly.” Fiadh raises her champagne flute to her lips, enjoying the squeamish expression contorting my facial features.

“That may be so. Doesn’t mean I need to hear about it.”

“Ignore her.” Beibhinn bats her hand towards me, silently hushing me. “I think I speak for everyone in the room, besides Saoirse… On a scale from sick day to skipping my next life, how big is he?”

My mother tosses her head back and barks out a belly-deep laugh. Not wanting to hear any more of the conversation, I turn to stalk back to the dressing room to try on more dresses, but unfortunately, Beibhinn’s shock follows me across the room when she shouts out a response to whatever my mam whispered.

“Jesus Christ, does he have to tape it to his leg every morning? How are you still walking?”

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