Page 85 of Dublin Beast

My first instinct was to blame him and his choices for putting us in this situation, but maybe he’s right and thisisEddie Mason is doing.

I’m not sure which would be better or worse.

Scratch that.It would be better for me if this is Sentinel or the anti-crime task force. Then, not only will I be justified in being pissed that this is his fault, but I might have a chance to talk myself out of it.

There’s a chance—however slim—I can distance myself from this whole mess. I have no criminal record and no known affiliation with Bryan or the Quinn family.

If I claim plausible deniability, maybe I can get myself out of this.

Guilt twists in my gut even as I try to sell myself this load of bullshit. I knew who Bryan Quinn was almost from the beginning.

I’m neither blameless nor naïve.

I may have been swept away by his panty-dampening hotness and his Irish swagger, but I knew.

I chose not to dwell on his dark side because I didn’t want to look too closely at why it didn’t bother me more. Overlooking it and harnessing his criminal connections promised me a greater chance of finding the answers I was looking for.

I never considered myself a hypocrite before.

Bryan killed to get me away from that auction and I was grateful he was capable of that kind of violence. I didn’t mourn the men that never went home that night because I was safe.

He was my savior, my hero—no—my antihero.

But no matter how delusional I was after he rescued me, there’s no way I can shine a heroic light on him when he busted into a motel room and snapped the neck of an unarmed woman in protective custody.

That’s ruthless. Lethal. Cold.

Lost in my thoughts beneath the dim flickering lights, I startle when Bryan advances, brandishing the metal bracket like a knife. I’m about to unleash hell on him when he slides the metal between my wrist and the chair I’m tied to.

Snap!My wrist comes free. He moves to my other wrist and frees that one, too. Then he shifts to kneel between my thighs.

When he drops his head, incessant thoughts of him fill my mind. His hot mouth on my core. The scruff of his stubbled jaw rasping against the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs. The way he spent hours making me come.

But he’s not the man I thought he was.

My body doesn’t care. The ache between my thighs reminds me that only this afternoon he pressed deep inside me, filled me, stretched me, and gave me so many mind-blowing orgasms my throat is still raw from screaming his name.

How the hell did we get from there to here?

Only hours ago, I was so worried about him getting caught in that firefight that I leapt into his arms like a lovestruck fool.

I swallow hard, realizing despite wishing it wasn’t true, in that moment Iwasa lovestruck fool. I blurred the lines between reality and two physically fit, attractive people with a boatload of sexual chemistry getting each other off while working together.

Friends who fuck.

That was my idea.

Bryan stands and stalks across the room. His brow is furrowed, his usually bright green eyes dark, hooded, and unreadable. He’s a boiling kettle about to blow and I’m not sure if that’s because of Eddie Mason or me.

Or maybe a healthy dose of both.

* * *

Bryan

A Victorian bathhouse—that’s a new one for me.

Our holding cell is a decaying tile box with milky windows a cat could barely fit through and no vents or openings to offer an exit.

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