Page 10 of Her Irish Savage

Sitting, listening to her breathe, my thumb fiddles with the ring I wear on the middle finger of my right hand. The titanium band has three sections so the middle part spins. I maxed outmy meds hours ago. This fidget ring is my best chance to shut down the rabid squirrels inside my brain.

That, or rubbing one out while I sit here.

Christ. I can’t be thinking about Fiona Ingram that way. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t noticed me once in the past two months. All the flaunting she’s done has been for the benefit of my boss. The rest of us Fishtown Boys are just props for her feckin’ show.

I stare at the other ring I wear, the gold signet with a Celtic knot worked deep into the surface. The four-part circle says I’m a Fishtown Boy for life. My loyalty to my clan has no beginning and no end. I’ll live and die by the family I’ve chosen.

Even if all of my brothers have been drooling over Fiona Ingram since she showed up at the start of Lent. Those tits… Those hips… That smart little mouth…

And now I know exactly what she looks like beneath the leather she wears like a uniform. I know how a steel zipper leaves a ridged, pink invitation down the middle of her chest. I know that buckles on her hips make grooves a man could measure with his tongue.

I know she waxes her pussy bare.

Jesus.

Fiona Ingram won’t be wanting any man’s touch for a long time. Maybe never for a man like me.

I shift in my chair, spreading my knees a little wider.

That moves my phone in my pocket, and I feel it buzz against my hip. Fishing it out, I find I’ve missed a whole string of messages, flowing through the group text for my soldiers. The first posts came in twenty minutes after I left Thornfield.

None of it makes sense. They’re talking about a bomb. A fire. The garage went up in some sort of fierce explosion. The building’s a total loss, along with all my boss’s cars. It’s a miracle no one was hurt.

I thumb through the posts faster now, until I find the real news: Madden Kelly set the bomb.

Fucking Madden Kelly.

I should have tracked him down before he shat all over Thornfield. Hunted him like the feral pig he is. Given him ten blows for every one he landed on Fiona tonight. Left him broken, blind, bleeding out in a dumpster.

I’m the Warlord. That’s my job.

But now I’m stuck here, playing nursemaid because of what that dry shite did. Fiona needs someone to change her ice packs. And from the texts still flying fast and furious, the entire clan is after feckin’ Madden. He’ll get his soon enough.

Fiona moans, waking up. She waves a hand at me like she’s trying to get a bad waiter’s attention in a worse restaurant. “C’mon,” she slurs. “Let’s go.”

She tries to get to her feet and fails. I wince for her as she sits down hard enough to clack her jaws together.

“You’re not going anywhere but back to sleep,” I say.

“Says who?”

She’s a belligerent patient. But I’m bigger than she is. And stronger. And a hell of a lot more sober. “Sit back,Scáthach,” I say.

“’M Fiona,” she mumbles.

“My mistake,” I say gravely, like I really give a damn. “Sit, Fiona. You need to sleep.”

She shakes her head, and pain chisels lines into her forehead. “Need t’ go.”

This is worse than arguing with a drunk. I fetch another pill and bring her a glass of water.

“Wha’s this?” She looks at me suspiciously.

“Take it,” I say. “And then we’ll go to Boston.”

She grimaces as she swallows.

“Let it settle,” I say.

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