Page 84 of Dublin Beast

“No. We ruined Eddie’s auction. Humiliated him. Cost him a fuckload of money and respect. He wants revenge, and we’re here so he can exact his pound of flesh.” He bends to his ankles, gripping the plastic bindings holding his feet in place.

I tense against my own restraints but don’t feel the slightest bit of give in the plastic.

He stands, grabbing behind him to grip the metal chair to lift the seat. As he works to raise the chair into the air, he kicks with first one leg and then the other, until he slides the chair legs out of the ties.

Free of the chair altogether, he slams it down against the floor with far more aggression necessary. Then he bends, pulling at the joins and riveted parts.

The chair is no match for the Dublin Beast and soon he’s pulling two of the metal brackets free from the frame. When he straightens, he swings his heavy arms like a boxer working himself up before a fight.

“What is this place?” I ask.

He glances around and frowns. “An old Victorian bathhouse, I reckon.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while.”

He grunts, sliding his boot in an arc across the chipped tiles on the floor. “Maybe not as a bathhouse but there’s a fair bit of blood staining here. I reckon it’s been used as a holding cell before us.”

I glare at him. “Do you have to say shit like that?”

He meets my glare and raises the anti. I’ve never seen his eyes so dark. “Make up yer fucking mind. Do ye want me to be blunt and lay it out for ye in full or do ye want me to spare ye the dirty details.”

“I don’t want either. I want to be back in my hotel room having a shower and getting ready to spend a night researching.”

“And if wanting something could make it so, I’d be home in Dublin with a whiskey in one hand and Yasmine in the other.”

His words echo off the hard tiles and for a heartbeat, I forget where we are. Forget the danger looming, the stale air, the ache in my wrists. Because there’s something in the way he says her name.Yasmine. Not like a memory, but like a prayer.

Like he’ll never let her go.

I swallow past the lump rising in my throat. I could lash out. Twist the knife. Remind him that he’s not the only one who’s lost someone they love, but I don’t.

Not because I’m still tied up and he could walk out of here and leave me—though the thought does cross my mind—but because for us to get out of here, we need to work together.

“What do we do now? What’s the plan?”

His gaze narrows on me and he lets out a long breath. “Well, we can either wait until Mason decides what piece of us he wants to carve off first. Or we try to find a way out of here before that happens.”

“I vote for door number two.”

“In a perfect world, that would be my choice, too.”

I peg him with a look. “And what happens if he comes to exact his revenge before we figure out how to get out of here?”

Bryan flashes me a cruel smile, “I’ll do what needs to be done. Because I’m a thug killer, after all.”

The silence that follows is thick. Ugly.

I swallow hard, meeting his gaze. “If you expect an apology for saying that, there isn’t one coming.”

He snarls, his muscles rigid, his upper lip curling as he scowls at me. “I expect nothing. We had an agreement—that’s the end of it. Ye delivered on yer end, and I’ll hold to mine. There’s nothing more between us.”

I flinch. “Well, it’s good to have clarity.”

“Aye, true enough.” His fingers grip the rusty metal bracket and, with his expression so filled with hostility, I fight not to recoil and reveal just how little faith I have in him right now.

He must read my unease anyway because he mutters a long string of something in Irish and I don’t need to understand the language of his heritage to understand he’s not just angry, he’sfurious.

Well, right back at him.

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