Page 89 of Dublin Beast

I glare daggers into the back of his head even as I reach for the waistband of my jeans.

* * *

Bryan

I stand with my back to her, arms crossed, eyes locked on the rusted steel door like it might do me the courtesy of bursting open and letting me beat the piss out of Eddie Mason with my bare hands.

Behind me, I hear it—soft at first, then the unmistakable sound of her relieving her bladder.

That this is a hard line for her is as bizarre as the woman herself.

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, giving her space. It's not like I haven’t seen every inch of her, tasted her sounds and sweat, memorized the way she tightens around my cock like she was made for it—but this?

This is what unsettles her?

Maybe it’s too familiar—too human.

Who the fuck knows? Women are batshit at times.

I stand there and the silence is heavy and long. I wait. Another minute ticks by. She doesn’t say anything.

“Are ye done? Can I turn around?”

“Oh, yeah. Check this out.”

I pivot, expecting to see her pulling herself together or maybe glaring at me again, but she’s not. She’s kneeling over the grate, palms flat on the cracked tile as she peers down into the rusted circle like it’s a portal to the gods.

“Ye missed the point, trouble,” I say, cocking my head. “Once it passes through the grate, it’s gone. Ye don’t get it back.”

She throws a glance over her shoulder that could blister paint. “I’m aware, genius. But while I was peeing, I heard it splash. Onwater.”

She points down between the metal slats. “It got me wondering if this place is still connected to something.”

My brow furrows. I take a few steps closer, squatting beside her, careful not to slip on the ancient, damp tile.

“You think it’s tied to the storm drains?”

“Maybe. It’s a bathhouse, right? All that water had to gosomewhere.”

I stare down between the slats. It’s dark as sin, but I can hear it now, too—a faint trickle, the echo of something deeper than just standing water.

A tunnel. A drain. Maybe even a chance.

“Let’s have a gander, shall we?” I stand, scanning the room for what we can use. “If that tunnel’s still open, it could lead out to the city runoff.”

“Think you can fit?” She eyes the broad span of my shoulders.

I grin. “Not gracefully.”

She snorts. “Is grace one of your strong suits?”

“According to the journalists who cover my cage fights, it is. It’s been said that I don’t just fight—I flow. Another reporter said watching me is like watching poetry spill blood.”

She pegs me with a skeptical look, but at least she’s looking at me again. I find the busted leg of my chair, twisted and jagged but solid. I wedge it under the lip of the grate. Harper grabs the other half from where I tossed it earlier and does the same on the opposite side.

We lock gazes and I dip my chin. “Ready and—push.”

Nothing.

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