Page 13 of Her Irish Savage

Da started treating me like his Clan Chief—his second-in-command—a couple of months ago, when Uncle Aran was locked up in prison. With Da’s sworn Clan Chief out of commission, he sentmeto Philly.Iwas tasked to rein in Braiden Kelly.

My father had no idea I’d already made inroads with Madden.

Now, Uncle Aran’s sprung from the pen; he went home just last week. Supposedly, the district attorney got worried about flimsy evidence, about losing such a high-profile case in an election year. I think she must have pocketed Uncle Aran’s cash—enough to buy a summer home on the Cape. Or maybe she decided not to test the Old Colony Crew’s reputation for burning out our enemies.

I haven’t spoken to my uncle since he was released. That’s a mistake. As my father’s heir, I should have made a point of welcoming his Clan Chief home. We celebrate every loyal soldier who slips the noose.

Well, I’ll make up for it once I’m back in Boston. I’ll make a big deal out of announcing that Uncle Aran is stillmyClan Chief, that I appreciate his serving as second-in-command, the way my father always did. Da has a stash of Jameson Bow Street in the basement. I’ll give my uncle a bottle in front of all my men.

“You’re awake, then.”

I startle at the words, even as I recognize Moran’s voice. “I am.”

“Shower and get dressed. The clothes on the bed are clean. You can eat, and we’ll pick up your things from Madden’s place. We can be on the road by noon.”

“On the road?”

“I’m taking you up to Boston. Get moving.”

My head is doing that floating thing again, bobbing somewhere above the couch. I try to take a deep breath, but my bruised ribs think that’s a crappy idea. I cover by giving Moran a slow blink and dropping my voice an octave. “You’re pretty good at giving orders, aren’t you?”

“You have no feckin’ idea.”

Even when he’s agreeing with me, he sounds like he’s making a threat. I probably should thank him for taking care of me all night long. But gratitude sounds an awful lot like weakness.

I settle for reaching toward the table, stretching like a cat as I put down my phone. That’s the first time I remember I’m wearing sweatpants cut big enough for King Kong. A sweatshirt, too. How could I forget Moran stripped me while I was out cold?

Angrier than I have any right to be, I demand, “Did you like the show?”

“Somno’s not my thing,Scáthach.”

He called me that last night. I don’t know what it means. I barely speak any Irish, just a word or two I’ve picked up from Da and the Crew. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ask Moran for the definition. I can look it up on my phone later.

He doesn’t make a sound. His lips don’t even curl. But somehow, I know he’s laughing at me.

I pull the sleeves of his monster-size sweatshirt over my fingertips. There must be something witty I can say, something to put him in his place, to make him shift his weight as I charmhis cock like a cobra. But for the life of me, I can’t think of what it is.

I don’t know if it’s the oxy Moran shoved down my throat or the aftermath of Madden’s fists or the looming realization that my father’s been dead for well over twelve hours and I’m late showing up for the Crew. But my usual quick words slip away like fish over a coral reef.

“Do you need help in the shower?” Moran finally asks, and I hate that his voice is kind. He’s not teasing me at all.

“I’m fine,” I say. I bang my hip against the couch as I lurch toward the hall.

“The towels by the sink are clean.”

“I’m fine,” I say again, which doesn’t make sense, but I’m concentrating too hard on keeping my balance to figure out why those words are wrong.

“Leave the door open,” he calls as I sway down the hallway.

I pretend that I choose to lean against the doorjamb to the bedroom, that I’m not about to collapse. I cock a hip and throw my shoulders back. Maybe I look sexy, but I’m really just trying to keep my balance. “So you can get another free show?” I ask, my tone a few notes shy of the purr I want.

“So I can hear if you fall.”

“Fuck you,” I say, because if I let myself think I’m weak enough to slip in the shower, I’ll cry again. And I cried enough yesterday to last the rest of my life.

I wait for him to make some scalding retort, to tell me exactly how he’ll fuck me, precisely what he’ll make me do. Instead, he says, “Go on, then. Coffee will be ready when you’re done.”

I don’t fall in the shower. And I only have to turn up the cuffs on the clean sweatpants four times. Three on the sweatshirt sleeves.

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