Page 4 of Her Irish Savage

But the instant I try to stand, the room begins to spin. I realize I’m only wearing one stiletto, and for some reason that strikes me as hilarious—until my cracked and broken laugh dissolves into more tears. I settle for kicking off the other shoe and bracing my back against the couch. I’ll get to my feet…soon.

I must fall asleep, or maybe I pass out again. Because the next thing I know, someone has his hands jammed into my armpits. He’s lifting me like I’m a splay-legged Barbie doll, or maybe a newborn foal. I try to protest, try to fight, but he only eases me back until I feel the edge of the couch behind my knees.

“Sit,” he orders, which really isn’t necessary, because I’ve already fallen onto the overstuffed cushions.

It hurts to look up at him. “Moran?” I ask.

He scowls. “Lucky for you,” he says.

Patrick Moran is a wolf of a man. His hair looks like he battled a tornado getting here; shots of silver tangle with black. As he glares down at me, his eyes look black as well. His long-sleeve T makes it clear he never misses arm day at the gym. I don’t know what color the shirt was when he bought it, but it’s a weathered gray now, faded from countless washings. His jeans look even older.

He cuts off my gaping when he snarls, “Anyone could’ve walked in that open door.”

I groan as I look over my shoulder. The door’s closed now. “I didn’t…” But it takes too much energy to explain that Madden left the door open. Madden took the milk run. Madden needs his ass kicked. Madden could be anywhere right now.

I’m shivering, my entire body shaking like I’m trapped beneath an iceberg. Each hammer-tap of my chattering teeth echoes through my head, and when I try to take a stifling breath, my side throbs so sharply I can’t fill my lungs.

It was a mistake, calling Braiden. I need my own family after all. I need my da.

I point to my phone on the floor, an impossible continent away. “G— gimme…” My lips are too swollen to bend around the words.

But Moran must understand, because he picks up my cell. It looks like a toy beneath his scarred knuckles. “Who do you think you’re calling?”

I force myself to look him in the eye. I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram, Crown Princess of the Boston clan. I swallow hard, so I don’t stammer. “My da.”

His sigh is like a wind blown all the way from the North Pole. “No, you’re not.”

I grit my teeth so hard, I see stars. Forcing myself to stand, I plant my hands on my hips. “I’m calling Kieran Ingram.”

“Then you’ll need a better phone.” He tosses mine onto the couch, beyond my reach.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

His eyes spark bright with an animal fury. “It means your da is dead.”

2

PATRICK

Jesus Christ. That’s not the way I meant to tell her.

But the Bell rang inside my head when Ingram’s girl reached for her phone. Loud and clear, like the start of a boxing round, the clang broke all my resolve. I lashed out like I always do, giving in to impulse when I most need control.

Fuck.

My captain sent me here because he trusts me. Because somewhere in my forty-six years on this planet, I supposedly learned how to behave like a civilized human being. Because I know how to shove my temper onto an ice floe and do what needs to be done.

And probably because I lived in Boston half a lifetime ago. My boss thought I’d have something in common with Ingram’s girl. That I’d find some way to break the news, soft and gentle as the springtime rain.

But Madden Kelly has pushed me to the feckin’ brink. His handiwork here makes me want to rip off his bollocks and shovethem down his throat. If I can’t do that, then I want to beat his face to a bloody pulp and use his ribs like a fucking punching bag.

Because the dry shite sure worked over Fiona Ingram. And the whole time he was doing it, he thought her da was still breathing. Still able to take revenge against my boss.

I shouldn’t fucking be here. I should be at my captain’s side. Working for the Fishtown Boys. Keeping my adopted clan safe.

I fight the urge to put my fist through the nearest wall. Instead, I take a deep breath, inhaling on a count of four. Holding for four. Exhaling, slow and steady and even, counting four again.

Fiona Ingram played games with a sick fecker who has the morals of a great white shark, and she got served up for dinner. That’s not my fault. I just have to manage the clean-up.

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