Page 32 of Bloody Knuckles

"Cormac," I repeat, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist. "Please..."

The word—half demand, half surrender—breaks something loose in him. His control shatters as he pounds into me with abandonment. The table shifts beneath us, glasses falling and shattering unnoticed on the floor. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by our shared moans and gasps.

"Mine," he growls, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. "You're mine now, Aoife. Say it."

The stimulation pushes me toward the edge. My inner walls clench around him, the dual sensation of his cock stretching me and his fingers working my clit overwhelming all rational thought.

"I'm—fuck—I'm yours!" I cry out, unable to deny him in this moment of pure sensation.

The admission triggers my climax. Pleasure explodes outward from my core, muscles clenching around his cock as wave after wave crashes through me. The orgasm is violent in its intensity, robbing me of breath, of thought, of everything except the white-hot ecstasy pulsing through every nerve ending.

Cormac follows moments later, burying himself deep as his release pumps hot inside me. His body tenses, a primal groan torn from his throat as he claims me completely. I feel each pulse of his cock as he empties himself, marking me from the inside in the most primitive way.

For long moments afterward, we remain connected, breathing synchronized in the aftermath. His forehead rests against mine, vulnerability in the gesture that defies our complicated relationship.

"She's a wildfire," he whispers, to himself. "I'd let her burn me alive."

The confession, not meant for my ears, lodges somewhere deep in my chest. This man—who executed his brother without hesitation, who kidnapped me without remorse—harbors a depth of feeling I never expected to discover.

Slowly, he withdraws from me, both of us wincing at the separation. His seed trickles down my thigh, a reminder of what just happened between us. Without the heat of passion, reality begins to intrude—the shattered glass surrounding us, my ruined dress, the dangers still lurking beyond these walls.

Cormac lifts me from the table with gentleness, carrying me through the house to a master bathroom gleaming with marble and chrome. He sets me on my feet before turning to fill the massive tub.

"You're not what I expected," I admit as steam rises between us.

He tests the water temperature. "Neither are you."

"What happens now?"

"Now?" He helps me into the tub, the warm water soothing aches I didn't realize I had. "Now we figure out how to use what you learned without getting you killed."

"We?" I sink deeper into scented water. "Are we allies now, Cormac?"

He removes his remaining clothing, stepping into the tub behind me. His powerful body envelops mine as he pulls me against his chest.

"We're something," he answers, lips brushing my temple. "Something neither Gallagher nor Donovan has a name for yet."

As his arms tighten around me, I realize a fundamental truth: I escaped the penthouse today only to surrender something far more valuable than my freedom. Something I never intended to give my enemy. A piece of my heart.

CHAPTER9

CORMAC

LEGACY'S COST

Kilmainham Gaol holds the ghosts of Irish revolutionaries—men who died for ideals greater than themselves. Its stone corridors echo with two centuries of suffering, the perfect backdrop for Donovan family business. We've held our quarterly gathering here for generations, renting the historic prison after hours through connections in the Heritage Council.

Tonight, walking these cold corridors with Aoife beside me feels like its own revolution.

"You're sure about this?" she asks, voice low as we pause before entering the East Wing where my family awaits. Three days since the cathedral incident, since claiming her on my dining table, against my shower wall, across my bed. Three days of planning what comes next.

"Having second thoughts, princess?" I adjust the cuffs of my tailored suit, armor for battle.

"Wondering if you've lost your mind," she counters. "Bringing me here is tantamount to declaring war on my family. Also, probably treason to yours."

"That war started long before you." I brush a strand of copper hair from her shoulder, savoring the slight shiver my touch evokes. "This is about family, or war."

She wears a dress of emerald silk that clings to every curve I've memorized with my hands and mouth. Not coincidentally, the color matches the Donovan family crest. A deliberate choice to send a message while ensuring she stands out among the black-clad wives and daughters of my associates.

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