Page 98 of Her Irish Savage

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever trust a man like that, a man in the life. Not after what you’ve seen in thedún. Not after being raised by a wolf like your da.”

“I don’t love him, Oona. I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“He left me!” I barely remember not to shout the words. They come out as an agonized hiss, like a candle dropped in a bucket of tears.

“He’ll come back.” Oona says it with the simple confidence another woman would use to say two plus two equals four. Three teaspoons equals a tablespoon. Eight ounces make a cup. Patrick Moran will return to thedún.

No. More than that. Patrick Moran will return tome.

“How can you possibly know that?” I ask.

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Oh, please.”

Oona says, “I’ve known Paddy since he was half your age. He has his own wolves. He met his own demons at thedún.”

“So you’re saying he’s as fucked up as I am.”

Oona tsks. “Keep using language like that,coinín beag, and I’ll head straight for home.”

“Oona…” I draw out her name, the way I used to do when I was a little girl, when I wanted her to read me one more story before she turned out the light.

“Talk to him,” she finally says, like that’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Yeah,” I say. “Right.”

“Don’t take that tone with me.” She holds up her hand, close enough to the wooden screen that I can see her long lifeline slicing across her palm. “No, no, I don’t want to hear it. You have a thousand reasons why you can’t do what’s right. But there’s one reason you should.”

“Because…” I know what she means. But I can’t make myself think the words, much less say them.

“Because you love him,” she says. Straightforward. Matter of fact. Like when she told me I’d get my period. When she cleaned me up after what happened in the chapel. When she told me Aunt S had died. “Talk to Paddy now. Because your uncle…”

I hear something in her voice, just before she trails off, something I never thought I’d hear in a million years. Oona Maguire is scared. “What?” I ask her. “What’s going on?”

She says, “The men in that house—they think I don’t pay attention. They think I’m blind and I’m deaf and I won’t repeat a syllable they say…”

“Oona. What is Uncle Aran planning to do?”

“At the vote next month, for the Grand Irish Union. Your uncle says he’ll run the meeting.”

“He can’t do that. I’m the one who booked the rooms.”

Oona makes a dismissive sound with her lips. “Anyone can book some rooms.” She lowers her voice so much I have to lean forward to hear her. I catch my breath to make out her whispered words. “He says he’ll sit for Boston. He’ll cast the Old Colony vote for general. And the morning after oaths are sworn, he’s bringing in a priest, to marry you in front of all the others. He’ll drug you if he has to. Beat you if he must. And once his ring’s jammed onto your finger, he’ll have all those other captains name him King of Boston.”

None of this is news. I’ve known Uncle Aran’s plan since he shoved his tongue down my throat in his office at thedún.

But bringing a priest to the Union meeting? Drugging me in front of all the other captains?

He’s crazier than I ever imagined. He won’t give up the Crew without a fight.

I’m suddenly aware that Uncle Aran might have followed Oona today. He has the resources to pay for access to my phone and track me that way. He’s purchased contacts on the police force; he can put out a missing-person claim and offer a reward to would-be Good Samaritans—tell them I’m sick, that I need help, that I’m off my non-existent medication.

Horror shivers through my belly like hairs rising on a tarantula’s leg.

“Holy fuck,” I breathe, which is probably the first time those two words have been said inside the confessional—at least on the priest’s side of the box.

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