Page 23 of Claimed By Daddy

“They’re waiting to see what we do.” Cillian nods in agreement. “We put it off long enough to deal with the Armenians. We can’t make them wait any longer. Can you get a few of your guys here by tonight?”

“Yeah.” Nikolai pulls his cell phone from his pocket, promptly making the arrangements we need.

She shifts on the couch, drawing her knees to her chest under the blanket. She’s been quiet for the last few minutes, just listening. For it being so early in the day, she already looks tired—worn at the edges. I want to tell her to lie down, because I know she won’t unless someone makes her. But I can’t.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” I mutter, rising from the couch. Walking the length of the sofa toward the spiral staircase, I run my hand along the back of it and ever so slightly brush my fingers against the back of Eavan’s shoulder when I stride past her. She’s motionless as she lets out a soft exhale.

The water in the shower is blistering hot, but it doesn’t burn out the restlessness crawling under my skin. I brace my hands against the tile wall and let the steam choke the bathroom. Images of Eavan in my bed flit through my mind, and I find my hand wrapping around my cock as though I have no control over either of them.

Closing my eyes and pressing my forehead to the cool shower surround, I aggressively fist myself from base to tip. It’s a sore substitute for where I had planned to bury my cock this morning—one last time for us to be alone together before Cillian and Nikolai came home. Wanting to fill my sweet little princess full of cum and knowing that even if I couldn’t touch her, she’d be spending her day feeling me drip from her. Finishing quickly and wasting my seed when it spills over my hand, I breathlessly mutter, “Eavan…”

The soles of my dress shoes echo heavily against the hardwood as I descend the stairs, and the cold steel of my Glock presses against my ribs beneath my suit jacket, a silent reminder of the world I live in—and of the stakes tonight.

Eavan stands alone in the kitchen, her fingers lightly rolling the base of her stemless wine glass along the granite countertop where she stands at the island. The hem of her skirt grazes the curve of her thigh, and for a second, I forget everything else.

I cross the space between us like a man possessed. She looks up as I reach her, surprise flashing in her eyes as her mouth starts to speak. I crash into her, lifting her effortlessly androughly placing her on the counter. My mouth finds hers with violent urgency, swallowing her gasp as I crash my lips onto hers.

The faint taste of Merlot on her soft lips ruins me. My hands fist into her red locks, pulling her tighter, needing her closer. She grips the front of my suit jacket like she’s holding on for dear life, and I wish I could stay here. Between her knees. Tasting her. Claiming her.

“I’ve been thinking about these lips all day, princess,” I breathlessly whisper, my forehead pressed against hers. “All fucking day just trying to find a moment alone with you.”

Pulling at my lapels, she drags me back into her. I don’t fight her—I want to be lost in her, no matter how reckless it is. “Not touching you is fucking unbearable,” I groan, kissing her again. Slower this time, but deeper. So fucking deep that I’m leaving a piece of my soul in her as I plunder her mouth.

One of the bedroom doors slams upstairs—shit—and I begrudgingly break away from her. Still panting, my hands reluctantly slip from her hair and slide down her body as I lower her to the floor. Her toes barely brush the hardwood before I step back. I position myself on the other side of the kitchen island just as Nikolai appears at the top of the stairs. Immediately followed by Cillian.

Eavan’s cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen. Her eyes burn into mine as Nikolai and Cillian join us in the kitchen.God, I want her again.Every part of me aches for her. I turn my attention to them as they step up to the island. “We ready?”

“Yeah,” Cillian responds, sweeping around the island and pulling Eavan into a brotherly hug. “There are guys outside to keep an eye on you until we get back. We might be late. Okay?”

She squeezes him back, her eyes never leaving mine as she insists, “Be careful and come home safe.”

I nod. Just enough that she knows that I intend to uphold that promise.

“If we’re done with all this mushy family shit, let’s go,” Nikolai barks.

The last of us to leave the kitchen, I walk close to Eavan—too close—and let my fingers trail across hers. Just a whisper of contact. Our hands curl together for the briefest second, sending a bolt of electricity zipping up my arm. Her breath hitches, and I agonizingly slip my fingers from hers, pretending that my entire body doesn’t ache, leaving her behind.

The ride into Chelsea is quiet. Just like the last time. No music. No unnecessary conversation. Just the roar of the engine and the anticipation humming beneath our skin.

Cillian sits shotgun, tapping his hand against his knee. Nikolai drives, and his face in the rearview is emotionless, eyes sharp, watching every car we pass like he’s memorizing license plates. I sit behind him, my ringed fingers bouncing off my thigh. This isn’t just a meeting. This isthemeeting to forge our families together.

Nikolai pulls to a stop before a vacant but familiar warehouse. His family has used it for years—gun running and interrogations. Tonight, it has a different purpose. It’s our boardroom.

Arriving before the men of our organizations, we step into the dimly lit space, and our footsteps echo against the concrete of the vast empty building. The faint scent of oil, metal, and dust clings to the air. No chairs. No table. Just the three of us standing in the middle of the room.

One by one, they start showing up—Irish, Italian, Bratva—their eyes darting between us and at each other as they file in with suspicious glances. The growing crowd is filled with grumbles and muttered threats, a few of the men already reaching for the grips of their pistols. None of them were told what tonight was. They don’t know why they’ve been summoned to this meeting of rivals. But they showed up, which means they’re smart enough to know that, individually, we’re in charge of our families now.

“What the fuck is this?” someone shouts with a thick Irish accent.

“Is this some kind of joke?” An unfamiliar Italian-accented deep voice billows through the crowd. “We’re supposed to meet withthem?”

The noise rises like a wave—accusations, curses, and questions—building to a deafening level. “Enough!” I shout, my voice slicing through the chaos in the room, everyone falls silent and their eyes shift toward me.

“Why the feck should we listen to you, asshole?” a voice growls from the back.

Cillian steps forward, flanking my right side. “Because you’re listening tous.”

Nikolai moves to the left, his expression as tight as his grip on the gun tucked into his waistband. One wrong move and he’ll paint the walls with someone’s blood—where everyone can see it. “Allof us.”

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