Page 54 of Her Irish Savage

After I fill a glass of water at the sink, I open the refrigerator. I want to layer slices of sharp cheddar onto crisp, sweet apples. I want to peel clementines and section out tiny half moons that I can slip between her lips. I want to unwrap chocolate, sweet with milk, like something inside a Christmas stocking.

She doesn’t have any of that. The only thing in the fridge is leftover Chinese food. We’ll get to that, but water will have to do for now.

I climb onto the bed and pull Fiona onto my lap. I help her with the water, giving her a sip at a time, making sure she doesn’t get too greedy, taking care not to spill.

I hold her as she settles back into her body. I rub arnica into her wrists, and I smooth the cream into the creases etched around her ankles. I tell her she’s my little girl.

After I set aside the plastic jar, she runs her finger over the knuckles of my right hand. “You have a lot of scars,” she says.

“They come with the job.”

She sets her palm against the wrinkled flesh on my left shoulder. “What happened here?”

“I was shot.” She doesn’t need to know about the Fishtown Boys’ bratva enemies.

She traces the long ridge above my liver. “And here?”

“Knife.” No reason to tell her I was foolish enough to open my front door to some mafia goons who thought I was carrying the clan’s cash.

“And here?” She traces the long gouge across my right thigh.

“Shot again.” That’s one I took for Kelly, when the two of us went after the Colombians, before he ever stepped up to captain.

She kisses the raised skin on my shoulder. “Don’t get hurt again, okay?”

I don’t bother lying, telling her I won’t.

Her fingers spread across my biceps, closing around the dark lantern of my lighthouse tattoo. “What are you covering up here?”

“Not covering up,” I say. “I got it after my wife died.”

Even half-asleep, she’s not stupid. She sees that the lighthouse is dark. That the storm clouds threaten. I watch her start to ask questions, stop, start again, give up. Instead, she runs a nail down the inked side of the lighthouse. She ends up touching Athawn’s broken lifeline.

“And when did you get this?” Fiona asks.

“The same time. My son died too.”

She swallows the rest of her questions. She grew up in Southie. She knows how easy it is to track down stories about the past.

So instead of pushing for more, she nuzzles closer to my side. I offer her the glass and make her sip until it’s empty.

After that, she dozes for a while. I sit up, leaning against the headboard while she stretches out beside me. My hand lingers over her hip, my fingers spread wide.

Sleeping, she looks so young. All of her fierceness is drained out of her. All of her fight.

What the fuck am I doing? Living in a Back Bay brownstone—a far cry from the rough Southie streets where I grew up. Playing with a sub who has a wild praise kink—because I’ve never been with a woman as quick to come as Fiona when I tell her she’s amazing.

I’ve never been a pleasure Dom. Sure, I’ve left my women satisfied. I’ve given them what they want. What they need.

But I’ve never had a woman whoneedspure pleasure. Fiona’s not ready for anything really rough. Sure, she dresses like she wants to be fucked hard against a brick wall in a back alley. And she’s willing to take a little correction. But after what Madden Kelly did to her, she needs to take it slow.

I’ve never played Daddy before. The thought of any shitehawk going after an actual child disgusts me. I’d gut him, prick to chin, without a second thought. But protecting Fiona? Keeping her safe from herself and the rest of the world? Making her see that she doesn’t always have to be the one fighting, the one in ball-busting charge?

That’s satisfying in a way I can’t begin to describe—except it suits my brain squirrels just fine. My mind feels…settled.

Calmed.

Fiona wakes sometime after sunset. She stretches at first. Burrows in closer. Then, all at once, she comes awake. Her eyes look wild against her smeared makeup.

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