Page 6 of Her Irish Savage

“You’ve got a broken nose and a busted lip. You’ll be lucky if you can see out of that eye in a week, and I’ll bet you a thousand dollars you’ve got at least one broken rib.”

“But none of that?—”

“You’re a bad risk. You look like shite. Forget it.”

Little Miss Know-It-All looks directly in my eyes. “Then take me to the emergency room. They’ll patch me up, and I can still be in Boston by morning.”

“You won’t be through talking to the cops by morning.”

Thatsurprises her. “Cops?”

“Doctors are mandatory reporters. You look like the textbook example of domestic abuse.”

This time she’s thrown for all of thirty seconds. “Then take me to Thornfield.”

Jesus, she won’t back down. And there’s no way in hell I’m taking Ingram’s girl to Braiden Kelly’s mansion right now. The place is crawling with Fishtown Boys, every one of them doing his best to keep her father’s army from destroying us.

“No,” I tell her.

“I know Braiden keeps a doctor on call.”

“Braiden is busy.”

“What the hell is he—” But she’s smart enough to figure it out on her own. And when she does, her voice gets very small. “Oh.”

With the fight gone out of her, she looks exactly like what she is: A frightened, bloodied kid. As she sinks back onto the couch, her face turns very, very white.

“I don’t feel so good,” she whispers.

“That’s the blood you’ve swallowed. Lean forward. Don’t let it run down your throat.”

I wait until she’s followed orders before I stalk to the kitchen. Every room in this place looks like it was cut out of a goddamn catalog. I’m willing to bet a year’s salary that Madden bought the model condo unit, then paid extra for them to leave it staged.

Glasses are in the third cupboard I try. I fill one with tap water and snag both cotton towels hanging from the oven door.

Fiona’s whimpering by the time I get back. Her hand shakes so hard when I pass her the glass that I leave my fingers on it, keeping it steady while she sips.

“Make it stop,” she moans.

“It will, once your nose is set.”

“Then set it.”

“It’ll hurt,” I warn her.

Her laugh sounds like a shattered window. “Do it.”

The couch is too low, so I settle my palm beneath her elbow and walk her over to the dining room table. I can feel her trembling through my fingertips.

“Sit on the edge of the table,” I tell her. Her legs dangle, like she’s a doll at a tea party.

“Hold on,” I say, curling her fingers around the edge of the table. “Tight.” And again, trying to warn her: “This’ll hurt.”

“Hurry up,” she says.

“Blow,” I tell her, holding the dish towel up to her nose. “As hard as you can.” There’s more blood and snot than any Kleenex could manage. “Again,” I say, like she’s a toddler with a head cold. “One more time.” I try to ignore how that must feel.

When I put the towel on the table, I take care to fold over the cloth so she can’t see what came out of her. Flexing my fingers, I remind myself I’ve done this for plenty of my soldiers. I know exactly what I’m doing.

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