Page 10 of Bloody Knuckles

"Tracking chip in your pendant." He approaches, each step unhurried, confident. "Did you think I wouldn't take precautions with something so valuable to you?"

Rage boils through me. The one item connecting me to my mother, violated. Used against me.

"You fucking bastard!" I lunge at him, fists swinging toward him.

He catches my wrists with insulting ease, spinning me against the brick wall. My back hits rough stone as he presses his body against mine, pinning me in place.

"Such fire," he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. "Most would be grateful I didn't put a chip under their skin. Nasty little things to cut out, bleed like hell."

"I'd rather die than go back to your cage." The words squeeze through clenched teeth.

His laugh vibrates against me where our bodies connect. "Death isn't in your future, Aoife. Not until I've gotten what I want."

"My father will never give you what you want."

Cormac hovers mere inches away. "What makes you think it's only your father's submission I'm after?"

Heat floods my center at his implication. His grip shifts, one large hand now holding both my wrists above my head against the wall. The other traces down my jawline to my throat, resting there with just enough pressure to remind me of my vulnerability.

"Declan," he says without looking away from me, "give us a moment."

"Boss—"

"Now."

Footsteps retreat, leaving us alone in the dark alleyway. Music from nearby pubs provides a distant soundtrack to our standoff.

"You're more trouble than I anticipated," Cormac says, voice dropping lower. "I admire resourcefulness, but your defiance requires correction."

"Fuck your correction." I struggle against his hold, accomplishing nothing except pressing our bodies closer together.

His mouth curves wickedly. "Such vile language from that pretty mouth."

"Let me go, or I'll show you what else this mouth can do." I bare my teeth. "I'll rip your throat out."

Something dangerous flashes across his face—amusement mixed with genuine intrigue. "You and I are more alike than you admit. Both born into violence. Both trapped by family legacy."

"We are nothing alike." The accusation burns worse than his restraint. "You're a monster."

"And what are the Gallaghers? Saints?" His fingers tighten fractionally on my throat. "Your father ordered the execution of the O'Malley family. Even their children."

The truth of his words cuts deep. My family's business drips with blood, same as his.

"At least I don't kidnap women to settle scores," I hiss.

His thumb traces my lower lip, the gesture strangely intimate amid our battle. "No. You just profit from the protection your last name provides while pretending moral superiority."

"Remove your hands before I remove them permanently."

"Make me."

The challenge hangs between us, electric and dangerous. Something shifts in the atmosphere—hatred warping into a different kind of heat. His body presses harder against mine, and I become acutely aware of every point of contact. The muscled thigh between my legs. His hips aligned with mine. The unmistakable hardness pressed against my stomach.

"This exciting you, Donovan?" I taunt, desperate to regain control of the situation. "Getting off on forcing yourself on women?"

His free hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. "I've never forced a woman. And when you come to my bed, Aoife Gallagher, it will be because you're begging for it."

"Never."

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