Page 32 of Irish Daddies
I turn to leave again, but her voice stops me once more. Softer this time. “Do you believe me? About wanting to help you?”
I look back at her. Really look. She’s not trying to manipulate. Not playing games. She’s exhausted, scared, and still trying to survive with some scrap of dignity intact.
“I believe you want to help,” I say. “But I also believe people will say anything when they’re cornered.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just meets my gaze like she’s waiting to be disappointed. “You touched me like you believed me,” she murmurs, her hazel eyes shining with tears.
It’s not just a fact. It’s an accusation, and I feel it like one. I look down at my feet and press my tongue to the inside of my cheek. I touched her, amidst all of this. And it was different than the way Rian touched her, the way he tricked her into something with a motive. I shared a night with her, with everything on the table.
“The truth is I want to keep you safe, but I don’t know if I can,” I say finally, swallowing hard before looking up at her. She’s picking at her fingernails, her food to the side and her knees up to her chest.
Her eyes are wide and serious. “But you’ll try?” Her knees fall to the side, revealing her soft slit, pink and swollen. I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but it works on me. I instantly harden and my mouth waters.
My eyes glued to her stubbled pussy, I nod at her and hurry out of the room before I make a mistake for the second time, this time while everyone is awake.
She can make as many promises as she wants, but they’re all under duress as far as the mafia is concerned. We all know by now that people will say anything to save their lives. We’ve watched people pledge their lives to us as we take hammers to their knees, and they never mean any of it.
It’s just survival, and that’s something Caroline knows too much about.
21
CAROLINE
The house hasthis eerie calm to it most days, filled with the quiet of money and secrets. No one visits me except to bring me food, and even then, they hold their heads down like a dog with its tail between its legs.
I don’t know how long has passed—a couple of weeks, I think. It hasn’t been all bad, as guilty as I feel for thinking that. If I weren’t worried about my children and for my life, I might even think it was a nice respite from my responsibilities. The bed is comfortable, and I have free time to read for the first time since the boys were born.
I hear the doorbell ring before I hear the voices. It’s a long ring, the kind that obviously was programmed and means something, and it echoes through the large mansion, hitting the concrete floors and walls and sliding back to the empty halls.
My stomach tightens, a reflex I can’t stop, like I’ve just been caught sneaking out as a teenager. Except I’m not sneaking out. And I’m not doing anything wrong by being in this house. I’m being held here, in the prettiest prison I never could’ve imagined.
The voices get more intense, and I can almost make it out through the heavy door, that’s how loud it is. I hear words here and there—“fine”—“trouble”—“nothing to worry”—“come in.” And then I hear Declan’s unmistakable footsteps, heavy and deliberate, like his knees have never learned to bend. And then lighter ones. Whose are those?
Then a tense voice calls, “Caroline?” A woman’s voice. Vaguely familiar.
Is that Alaina?
My feet move before I think, pulling me toward the door. I press my cheek against it, straining to hear. The footsteps are quick, slamming, and then coming down the hallway. The lock is undone, the door cracked open like a geode. Declan’s face, gaunt and intense, looks down at me, and he bares his teeth before gripping my hand. He pulls me into him, his muscles pressing against me through his shirt. He pulls my hair away from my ear and whispers, “Your friend is here. Breathe a word, and we’ll kill you both.”
My eyes widen at the news, and when he steps back, I see her: Alaina. And with her my sons. “Mama?” Isaac’s small voice asks, like he doesn’t recognize me, like he’s afraid I’m a mirage.
My breath punches out of me.
They’re in slightly mismatched clothes, their hair tousled from sleep or the car or both. Isaac’s carrying his stuffed triceratops. Joshua is clutching the hem of Alaina’s shirt.
Alaina stands behind them, her expression a blend of exhaustion, concern, and barely contained fury. Her lips press together as she sees me, and something hardens in her eyes.
“There she is,” she says softly, too softly. The kind of softness that comes before the storm.
The boys run to me, and I drop to my knees, pulling them into my arms so tight that I might break something. I don’t care. I need to feel every rib, every breath, every bit of them that’s real and warm and mine.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Isaac pulls back and wipes my cheek with his sleeve. “Did you miss us, Mama?”
“So much,” I whisper. “So, so much.”
“Where have you been?” Joshua asks. “Alaina said you had a ’mergency. Where’s the fire?”
I look up at Alaina, and she crosses her arms. “I was wondering the same thing.”
