Page 4 of Bloody Knuckles

I pry my eyelids open. Three men in the vehicle with me. Dublin streetlights create streaks across tinted windows. My pendant presses against my collarbone, a small comfort in this nightmare.

"Where are we going?" The words scrape from my dry throat.

The driver flicks a glance in the rearview mirror. "To meet Cormac Donovan."

A chill runs through me despite the car's warmth. Cormac Donovan. The man whose bare-knuckle fights are legendary. Who ordered my brother beaten almost to death last year. Whose family has warred with mine for three generations. A monster with a perfect smile, and enough charm that no one sees the villain.

"What does he want with me?" I demand, though the answer seems obvious. Revenge. A message.Leverage.

Silence answers as we leave the city center, heading north toward Howth Peninsula. The Donovan estate. I've seen surveillance photos—stone walls, armed guards, security systems. A fortress that people enter by invitation only, but don't always leave.

I test the zip ties. Too tight to slip. The drug still clouds my thinking, making escape possibilities murky.

"My father will slaughter every one of you for this," I say, voice steady despite my racing pulse. "He'll hunt your families, too."

The man beside me laughs. "Your daddy should've considered that before hitting our shipment."

So that's what triggered this. Liam's operation at the docks. My brother's recklessness has painted a target on my back yet again.

The car slows, turning onto a private drive flanked by ancient trees. Terror mixes with anger in my gut as iron gates swing open. Beyond them stands a mansion of gray stone and crawling ivy. Security floodlights wash over manicured grounds patrolled by armed men.

We pull up to the front entrance—grand stone steps leading to massive oak doors. A dwelling built to intimidate and impress.

"Move," orders the tall man, cutting my zip ties only to replace them with cold metal handcuffs.

My legs wobble as I exit the car. "My family will find me."

"We're counting on it," he says, shoving me forward.

Inside, the manor reeks of leather, wood polish, and testosterone. Artwork worth fortunes hangs alongside medieval weapons. A monument to blood money and ruthless power. They march me through corridors past curious stares from Donovan soldiers.

We stop before imposing double doors. The tall man knocks once.

"Enter," commands a deep voice from within.

The doors swing open to reveal a study lined with leather-bound books. A massive desk dominates the space. And there, looking like sin personified, stands Cormac Donovan.

I've glimpsed him before—charity galas, funerals, places where rival families maintain frigid civility. But never this close. Never alone.

He fills the space with raw physical presence. Broad shoulders stretch his tailored shirt. Dark hair, close-cropped at the sides, longer on top. Strong jaw darkened with stubble. And his expression—calculating, predatory, with a coldness that freezes my blood.

Fresh bruises mark his knuckles. The boxer. The heir. The blue-eyed nightmare my father warns about.

"Leave us," he tells his men without looking away from me.

"Sir, she might?—"

"I can handle one little woman." His voice brooks no argument. "Out."

The men retreat, closing the doors with a harsh click. Trapping me with Dublin's most dangerous bachelor.

I lift my chin, refusing to cower despite the flood of adrenaline and fear. "If you plan to kill me, Donovan, skip the theatrics."

One corner of his mouth quirks upward. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have woken up. I certainly wouldn’t bring you home to kill you, murder is messy."

He circles the desk with fluid grace, each step bringing him closer. I retreat until my back hits a bookcase.

"Then what?" I demand. "Ransom? My father doesn't pay?—"

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