Page 103 of Her Irish Savage

I know she’ll stiffen. I’m ready for it. I hold her closer.

“You would have made the shot. You could have taken out Joyce. I was trying to protect you. But you didn’t need that. You didn’t needme. And Christ, when I realized that, I wanted you to hurt as much as I did. So I said you’ll never be captain. I hit as hard as I could. I’m sorry,Scáthach.I was wrong.”

For a long time, I think she won’t respond.

But then she speaks, her voice so soft I have to hold my breath to make out her words. “I was wrong, too. I know how hard you fight to stay on track, with the meds and the fidget ring, and your breathing. And you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you. Not once.”

“Well,” I say. “Maybe once. When I shot the man you said you were ready to kill.”

She doesn’t smile. “I shouldn’t have called you…that.”

“Say it,” I urge her.

She shakes her head.

“It’s just a word.”

“One that hurt you.”

“Sticks and stones…” I tease. But then I get serious again. “Go on. I want to hear you say it.”

“Cujo,” she finally whispers.

I kiss her hair. “See? Just a word.”

She draws a ragged breath. I feel her start to say something. Stop. Start again. She sighs, and pulls her elbows in close to her sides, as if she’s trying to disappear.

“What?” I ask. And then all I can do is wait.

When she finally speaks, she sounds like a lost orphan. “It’s over then? You’re not my Daddy anymore?”

My arms tighten around her. “Of course I’m your Daddy.”

“But you… You said you were wrong.”

“Daddies can be wrong.”

She shakes her head. I might as well have told her Daddies can fly to Mars.

Sweet Jesus. Her da never admitted to being wrong, notonce, in Fiona’s entire life. Her world doesn’t have room for a man who makes mistakes. For a man who says he’s sorry.

“I’m older than you are,” I tell her. “Obviously. I’ve experienced a lot more. I have a hell of a lot more context than you do, for the Crew, for the world, in this bed. But you have to believe me. I’m not perfect. And that night, on the green, I was wrong, little girl.”

Little girl.

I feel her start to soften at the pet name.

I let my fingers slip beneath the edge of her corset, purposely keeping my touch light enough to tickle. “Got that, little girl?”

She squirms.

“What, little girl? I can’t hear you.”

She giggles.

My fingers brush the soft skin beneath her tits. “What’s so funny, little girl?”

She’s laughing now. But she throws back her shoulders and challenges me. “You said you’re more experienced than I am in bed.”

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