Page 7 of Her Irish Savage

Her left eye is swollen closed. But the right one stares at me—bloodshot and watering from who knows which pain, but a steady, unblinking green.

I resist the sudden urge to smooth her straight black hair off her face. I want to cup her cheek in my palm. I want to tell her she didn’t deserve this, any of it.

Instead, I make a triangle with both my hands, setting my matched index fingers in the center of her forehead. Without giving her a chance to flinch, I slide my fingers down either side of her nose, pressing hard enough to realign the bones beneath.

A scream vibrates against the back of her throat, but she doesn’t let a sound escape her lips. She holds onto the table for a full count of ten after I finish.

For the first time since I walked into this hellhole, I remember the rumors about Fiona Ingram: She’s a killer. She’s executed four men on her da’s command. Taken out another three on her own accord, if the stories are right. Watching this slip of a girl manage her pain, I believe it.

“N— Now,” she says, and it takes her a moment to stop her teeth from chattering. “Drive me up to Boston.”

“I’m not?—”

“Braiden sent you here for a reason. It wasn’t just to tell me Da is dead. He could have done that over the phone.”

“He wouldn’t?—”

“Drive me up to Boston, the way Braiden Kelly thinks you should.”

“He doesn’t?—”

“Moran.”

I don’t remember the last time I let a woman cut me off while I was speaking—much less three times in a minute.

Then again, I interrupted her, earlier.

She’s strong. And she’s brave. But no matter how many men she’s put in the ground, she doesn’t have a clue how men will fight for the type of power her father took for granted.

I keep things simple. “No.”

“Don’t make me?—”

My turn to interrupt again. “Fine,” I say. “Walk across this room and pick up your phone.”

She glares at me out of her one good eye. I watch her brace her arm against her side, cushioning her ribs as she slides off the table. She raises her chin, still streaked with dried blood from her lip.

She takes five steps before her knees buckle. That’s four more than I thought she’d manage.

I catch her before she falls. She smells like sweat and blood and something sharp that might be despair. But I catch a whiff of something else, something clean. It’s mint, maybe, or the chamomile tea my mother used to make when I had a dodgy stomach.

Holding her close, I collect her phone from the recliner. It’s in one of those wallet cases—a Massachusetts driver’s license pokes out between two credit cards. I jam it into my back pocket and drag her toward the door. “Let’s go.”

She’s out of adrenaline. But she manages to slur, “Boston?”

“No. My place.”

“F— fuck you.”

I laugh, which almost gives her the strength to stand on her own. “Not everyone wants to get in your pants, sweetheart.”

Since walking into this hellhole, I’ve been doing my best to ignore the fact that she’s not wearing pants beneath that black leather skirt. The one that’s small enough to double as a napkin. For a doll.

Her wordless snarl almost makes me laugh again. But I say, “You’re in no shape to wait for Madden on your own. And if I’m here when he gets back, I’ll have to kill him. My boss hasn’t said I can do that yet. So do us both a favor, and let’s get out of this feckin’ dump.”

She finally sees logic and nods. We move like we’re fighting for last place in a three-legged race, but I get her out the door.

She manages to stay upright in the elevator, but the cold marble floor in the lobby makes her hobble. Enough. It’s too late to go back for shoes now. I sweep her off her feet like she’s a dress on a hanger.

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