Page 2 of Her Irish Savage

He finishes with a single vicious thrust, holding himself deep inside me as every muscle in his body turns to stone. His cheek is sweaty against mine when he collapses with a grunt.

I hook my heel around the back of his knee and hold him close. “Hey, big guy,” I whisper.

He isn’t big. He’s barely average. But I’ll tell a lie or two to spare us both from Braiden’s fury.

I rock a little, trying to get his attention. “Hey,” I say again, while his dick is still inside me. “What should we do with the milk run?”

He freezes like I jammed a cattle prod up his ass. “It’s mine.” He sounds like a stubborn two-year-old.

“It is,” I agree. “So you can do whatever you want with it.”

“That’s right,” he says.

“Can you imagine how surprised Braiden would be if you gave it back? He’d shit his pants.”

Madden plants a hand on my shoulder, pushing off of me hard enough to hurt. “Whose side are you on?”

“I don’t choose sides.”

“Then what the f?—”

“Braiden’s your captain. The money?—”

Belongs to him.I was going to saythe money belongs to him.

But Madden’s fist lands in my belly, forcing all the air from my lungs and making me forget how to use my words.

I haven’t been struck like this in years.

Madden scrambles off the couch, jamming his limp dick into his briefs and tugging his jeans over his hips. By the time he’s yanked up his zipper, I’m finally able to push myself into a sitting position.

Don’t fuck over the captain. I learned that rule sitting at my father’s table, before I was old enough to tie my shoes. I’ve seen it play out over and over as Da keeps Boston in line, as he watches over the entire Grand Irish Union. It’s the simple truth of life in the Irish mob, and part of me can’t believe Madden Kelly doesn’t know it.

I fight for a breath, for another, and then I say, “Braiden?—”

Will come after you. After us. He’ll make sure no one ever dreams of stealing from him ever again.

But Madden doesn’t give me a chance to say another word. Because the instant his brother’s name crosses my lips, Madden closes his hand around my throat. He drags me to my feet, ignoring my shrieked protest.

I’ll do anything with a man. Dress however he wants. Play whatever role he needs. But no one—absolutely no one—gets to choke me.

Crimson fury mixes with blind panic as I try to force out the warning Madden needs to hear. “Your brother?—”

But Madden Kelly has been replaced by a swearing, snarling demon. This time, when he punches me, he goes for my face. My lips splits over my teeth, and blood sprays onto the coffee table, darker than Louboutin red.

I raise my hands to defend myself, but I’m slow to move and everything hurts so much. He lands half a dozen blows—short, sharp jabs to my face, to my chest, to my stomach.

“Please,” I gasp, and I hate myself, because I haven’t begged a man since I was sixteen. “Stop,” I plead, sharp and desperate, exactly the way I sounded eight years ago.

He waits until my knees buckle, until my spine melts, and Icollapse to the floor beside the couch. I can barely track his movements as he storms into the kitchen.

“You fucking bitch,” he hollers, shoving a stack of envelopes in my face “Thisis what I’m doing with the milk run. I’m taking every goddamn dollar. And you’re the one who made me do it! You goddamn fucking bitch.” He lands a kick beneath my ribs before he stalks to the door.

Maybe I pass out. Maybe I just lie there, feeling a million tiny knives carving me apart from the inside. Maybe I’m pretending I’m dead, praying Madden won’t come back to finish the job.

But eventually I have to find out how badly I’m hurt.

It takes all my concentration to stretch a hand toward the coffee table. I fumble blindly until I find my phone. My left eye isn’t working right, but I manage to squint, to locate the little square icon for my camera.

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