Page 3 of Bloody Knuckles

My fingers find the gold pendant at my neck—a Celtic knot my mother gave me before illness took her. "Wear this for strength,a stór," she'd whispered. "When the world tries to crack you open."

As the band launches into "The Rocky Road to Dublin," patrons stomp and clap. I drain my glass and signal for another. Two hours of freedom before returning to my gilded cage—that's all I'm allowing myself.

"Got some nerve." The voice cuts through the music. A man drops into the chair across from me without invitation. His jacket shifts, revealing the outline of a pistol. "Coming to this neighborhood."

I keep my voice neutral despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. "I'm enjoying the music. That's all."

He leans closer, whiskey fumes mingling with tobacco on his breath. "Aoife Gallagher sitting pretty in Donovan territory. Must be my lucky night. Do they noy have music on your side of the tracks? Or are you just stupid?"

A cold rush floods through me. I calculate distances—back exit too far, front door now blocked by three men who weren't there before. My hand inches toward the blade strapped to my thigh.

"Tell Cormac Donovan to piss off," I say, injecting venom into my tone. "If he wants to threaten me, he can deliver the message himself."

The man's mouth curls upward. "Funny you mention the boss. He's real eager to meet you. In person."

I scan the room again. Five men total, strategically positioned by both exits. All armed. No chance of fighting them off. I’m well and truly fucking trapped.

"Not interested in a social call." I stand abruptly. "Move aside."

"That wasn't a request, princess."

I fling my whiskey into his face and lunge for the kitchen. Shouts erupt behind me as I crash through the swinging doors. A cook jumps back, cursing in Gaelic. I knock over a tray of glassware—the shattering creates a momentary distraction.

The back alley beckons through the service exit—narrow, dark, promising escape. I burst outside, cold air hitting my flushed skin. Freedom waits just beyond the street corner if I can?—

A vise-grip clamps around my arm, yanking me backward. The stench of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes invades my space as a broad-shouldered man slams me against rough brick.

"Got her!" he calls out.

Instinct takes over. I drive my knee upward into his groin. He doubles over with a grunt of pain. I twist free, ready to sprint, when a fist connects with my jaw. Another thug appears, smirking at me through yellowed teeth.

"Feisty little thing," he laughs. "The boss said you'd be trouble."

Copper fills my mouth. I switch to Gaelic, words my grandmother taught me. "Go raibh na Sí ag do thóir!" I spit the curse at him. "May theféar gortachhaunt your dreams, may the hungry grass drain your worthless soul!"

He strikes me across the face. "Speak English, you crazy?—"

"Enough!" A new man steps into the alley, taller and more commanding than the others. "Cormac wants her unharmed. You going to tell him that shiner, was you?"

I spit blood onto his polished shoes. "Worried I won't look pretty enough for your master's collection? He likes ring-bunnies, and cover models."

The tall man ignores my taunt, addressing his men. "Get her secured. Car's waiting."

I fight as they grab my arms, twisting and clawing. My nails rake down one man's cheek, drawing blood. Another curses when my boot connects with his kneecap.

"This is taking too long," the leader mutters, producing a syringe. "Hold her still."

Fresh panic jolts through me. "Don't you dare!" I thrash harder, screaming now. A meaty palm clamps over my mouth, muffling my cries. The needle pricks my neck, sending fire through my veins.

The alley tilts and swirls. My limbs grow impossibly heavy.

"Sweet dreams, princess," a mocking voice says as blackness swallows me whole.

* * *

The rumbleof an engine pulls me back to consciousness. My wrists burn, bound tight with plastic zip ties. My mouth tastes like ash and copper.

"She's waking up," a male voice announces.

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