Page 23 of Her Irish Savage

“We. You need someone watching your back.”

Plus, once I’m inside thedún, I’ll have a front-row seat to the Old Colony Crew’s infighting. I’ll find out if Dowd has already completed his coup. If he’s pulled his men into line, they can move against the Fishtown Boys.

After all, that’s why my boss gave me leave to make this trip north—to monitor the risk to my adopted clan. Not to fuck a girl young enough to be my daughter.

Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Watching my back. Is that what old men like you call it?”

There’s a moment when I know I can have her again. All I have to do is tug away the duvet that’s barely covering her lap. I can grab another johnny and pull her ankles to my shoulders and give her another ride she won’t soon forget.

But she didn’t call meDaddyjust now. And I’ll take that as a sign that she’s as tired as I am. Worse, likely, because Madden beat the shite out of her just twenty-four hours ago. Ice and arnica and makeup disguise a lot, but sleep is the only thing that will truly heal damage like hers.

I edge sideways around the bed and fight to loosen the blanket and sheet from the mattress. “Play your cards right,Scáthach, and I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning.”

“What does that mean? Ska-ha?”

She pronounces it like an American girl. I climb into bed and make a show of fluffing up my pillow. “Come to bed.”

She huffs in exasperation, but she gets in on her side of the mattress. “Seriously,” she says. “Why are you calling me that?”

“Go to sleep,” I say, because I like being the one in control.

She clicks her tongue as if she’s ten years younger than she is. Rolling over, she does her best to steal both the sheet and the blanket.

I put a quick stop to that. I throw my arm around her and spread my fingers wide across her belly, pulling her spine to my chest. I purposely aim low, avoiding the mottled bruises Madden left across her ribs.

“Oíche mhaith,” I say, trusting she has enough Irish to knowgoodnight.

She shifts her weight, and I catch her wrist before she can land an elbow in my side. I pull her even closer, anchoring my position by arcing my leg over hers.

“Goodnight,” I murmur for good measure, setting my lips against her ear.

She holds herself stiff for a full minute. I think I’ll have to relent because pinning her here does neither of us any good.

But then she exhales, long and low and steady. Her spinetransforms from an iron chain to a length of heavy rope. Her hips rock, and she finds a better angle, and she sighs again inside the cage of my body.

I won’t sleep like this. I never do more than doze at night anyway—a hard-won hour here, getting up to check the door and windows, another stolen hour there.

But things are different with Fiona. I lie still so I don’t disturb her. I relax my grip around her belly. I let her take the full weight of my leg. I match my breath to hers.

And I sleep.

9

FIONA

Moran wakes before dawn, if the gray light leaking in from the air shaft is any guide. I feel the pressure of his morning wood against my ass, and I wait for him to nudge me awake for some relief.

But he only brushes a kiss against the sensitive skin beneath my ear before he pulls away. Once he’s out of bed, he shifts the sheet and duvet up to my chin.

I must fall asleep while he’s taking a shower, because the next thing I know, he’s setting a paper bag on the shelf that passes for a nightstand. He waits for me to sit up, and then he gives me a cup.

I take it with both hands, breathing in the steam. Sadly, while it smells like coffee, the brew is so weak it tastes like water. Sugar water—I’ll give Moran that—but water all the same.

“There’s an apple,” he says, nodding to the bag. “And an everything bagel.”

That’s barely a start. I’m ravenous. But I ask, “What are you eating?”

“I’ll get something while I’m out.”

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