Page 33 of Her Irish Savage

Behind the bedroom door, it takes me longer than it should to unpack my suitcases. It already seems like my stay in Philadelphia was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

I go to the safe in the closet and work the combination. I’m pretty sure I left it empty—spending the last few hundred-dollar-bills on a leather bodysuit, one with steel-framed cutouts for my nipples and snaps across the crotch.

I’m right. The cupboard’s bare.

I take out my phone and pull up a translator app. I’m not sure how to spell that word he calls me—ska-ha—but I try typing it in phonetically. Nothing comes up.

I switch to an English-Irish dictionary, but it’s no more help. I try pulling up an Irish dictionary, one that leaves the words in Gaelic, but I can’t make heads or tails out of that.

Frustrated, I throw my phone on the bed. I get undressed, and I hang up the clothes I wore to the wake. I put on one of my favorite sleep sets—a plum-colored cropped cami and matching high-waist shorts. I wash away my careful makeup, obliterating my smoky eye and exposing my bruises. I smooth on fresh arnica, and I brush my teeth.

Moran’s out there.

I can’t stop myself from thinking it. But I don’t allow myself to do anything.

Instead, I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling. I should be exhausted. My body’s still healing from the beating Madden gave me. I honestly never imagined the day I’d see my father lying in his casket. I still can’t say what drove me to make my ruthless promise to the Crew.

Ten million dollars.

I barely have ten thousand in my savings account. Most of that was birthday gifts from family. I haven’t worked a day in my life, aside from the job I just lost: Being Kieran Ingram’s daughter.

Moran’s out there.

With a good real estate agent, a better lawyer, and a lot of luck, I could sell this apartment by the end of the month. But—as high as Back Bay real estate is—I wouldn’t clear enough to meet my goal.

I could go back to Philadelphia with Moran and beg Braiden Kelly to lend me the money. But the thought of groveling in front of him, of admitting that I need help, that I can’t do this on my own… And I can’t be sure he’d even let me borrow the cash. Not after I stood by and watched his brother steal his own protection money…

Moran’s out there.

The bedroom is too hot. I toss off all my covers.

My pillow is too flat. I double it over. Crane my neck because now it’s too high.

I slip my hand between my legs, edging my fingers past the lace at the top of my shorts. But even before I start to rub, I know my body won’t cooperate. Touching my clit is as exciting as rubbing the tip of my nose.

Moran’s out?—

When he comes into the bedroom, he doesn’t try to be quiet. He turns the doorknob hard and shoves the door all the wayback to the wall. He comes to the foot of the bed, a shadow in the night. Two rings glint on the hand that grips his pillowcase.

“Are you asleep?” he asks, in a voice loud enough to wake me if I was.

I shake my head, then realize he can’t see me. “No.”

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says.

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“I just need to sleep,” he says.

“Me too.”

He circles around the bed and places his pillow beside mine. His eyes must have adjusted to the dark, because he pulls back my tangled bedclothes without hesitation.

Only then does he climb onto the mattress. It’s higher than the one at the hotel, but my bed is only a queen. He slips beneath the sheet and the blanket and the duvet.

His chest is bare, but he’s wearing boxer briefs. His arm is heavy as he pulls me close to his body. His chub presses against the lace of my shorts until he shifts his leg, caging mine.

This shouldn’t work. I should feel too closed-in. I should be choked by the memory of incense and altar candles, by the starch that Oona ironed into my uniform top.

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