Page 3 of Her Irish Savage

My lip is split. My nose is bleeding, and I’m pretty sure it’s broken. There’s blood on my teeth, and a crimson line of drool paints my chin. My left eye is swelling shut, and a nasty bruise make me wonder if my cheekbone is broken too.

I snap a photo. My finger hovers over the tiny image. If I send it to my father, he might have Madden killed. Da’s chief enforcer, Keenan Rivers, could do the job. He would make sure it takes a long, long time for Madden Kelly to die.

But Da has let me down before. He might ignore what Madden’s done. Say it’s my own fault, for staying with a bogger.

Or worse—Da could call me home. He’ll say he never should have let me stay in Philly on my own. And as soon as my bruises fade, he’ll make sure some man’s ring is on my finger.

I won’t do it. I’m worth more than my family name and a fucking marriage license. I know I am.

But there’s someone else who can get revenge against Madden.

Holding my breath as I tap the screen, I call Braiden Kelly.

Earlier this spring, I lived in his house, spying at my father’scommand. When I wasn’t flirting, I sponged up everything I could about how Braiden Kelly runs Philadelphia, how he keeps his Fishtown Boys loyal.

And I watched him tame his wife. I saw him exercise the power of a true alpha, a man who would never hurt a woman in any way she didn’t crave.

He lets his phone ring three times before he answers. When he does pick up, his voice carries less emotion than the timer that tells me when my morning coffee has brewed. “Fiona.”

“Your brother’s a fucking bastard.” I sound like I’m drunk, fighting to fit my swollen lips around the words.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“He took it all,” I say.

“Took what?”

“The milk run.”

“The money you two stole from me?”

I wince, and lightning explodes up every nerve in my face. “He beat me up.” I actually mean to say I’m sorry, but the other words break out of me like a hiccup.

Braiden’s voice is cold. “I’m not your knight in shining armor.”

Braiden’s no knight. And he’s never been mine, no matter how I tried to tempt him with my stiletto heels and leather. But I remind him: “If you don’t kick his ass, my father will. And you’ll end up caught in the middle. Is your piece-of-shit brother worth burning every bridge to the Union?”

He doesn’t say a word.

“Braiden…” I say, suddenly terrified he’ll hang up on me.

I have to do something. I have to make him understand. I pull my phone away from my face and send him the fucking photo.

“Christ, Fiona,” he finally says.

“Make him pay.” I’m horrified to realize I’m crying. I never cry. “Please… Come get me, Braiden.”

He keeps me waiting for long enough that I’m not surprisedby his answer. “I can’t leave Thornfield.” But then he offers: “But I’ll send my Warlord, Patrick Moran.”

I’ve barely seen Patrick, hanging around with the Fishtown Boys. I don’t want a stranger to see me like this. “Please…” I say. And I don’t even care that I’m begging for the second time in an hour. “Come get me yourself.”

“Text me your address. Patrick’s on his way.”

I’ve heard that tone often enough over the past two months, since I started playing with fire here in Philly. Braiden Kelly won’t change his mind. So I force myself to whisper, “Tell him to hurry.”

Braiden ends the call before I do.

I should make my way down the hall to the bathroom. Pee and wipe away the mess Madden left between my legs. Wash my face. Brush my hair. Pull on a pair of panties, so my corset and skirt feel like armor, instead of a prison uniform.

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