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She’s grown complacent with them. Why?

Maybe she thinks the Irish are just regular clients like anyone else. Maybe she doesn’t know what they’re fully capable of.

That’s what gnaws at me. She’s too at ease, moving through their world like she belongs. But there’s something else—something that twists in my gut.

None of them touch her. Ever. And they’re like us—marrying age and in need of wives. Keenan McCarthy’s carried on the family tradition of arranged marriages.

I’ve watched her interact with them. The men defer to her. They speak to her, joke with her, but they don’t get too close. Not like they would with a woman they claim as their own. Not like they would if she belonged to one of them.

Good. Killing one of them would fuck that alliance to hell.

She shifts on the couch, stretching out, then curling her bare legs beneath her. Then, out of nowhere, I see it—something I wasn’t expecting.

She laughs. Not a forced laugh or the clipped kind you give when you’re keeping up appearances. No. A real one. Her head tilts back, her lips part, and the sound is soft. Unguarded.Real.I can’t remember the last time I heard someone laugh with such abandon, with such wonder and unreserved humor.

Does she laugh like that with the Irish? Jealousy claws at me and my chest tightens. For weeks, I’ve observed her—careful, calculating, always watching her back. But right now, she looks…free.

It quickly evaporates, but a strange part of me wants to hold onto it, gather it in my hands, and tuck it safely into a jar where I could store it out of reach. But just as soon as it comes, it’s gone.

She shakes her head, still grinning at whatever amused her on her phone before she does something that fucking destroys me.

Reaching for a fluffy, blush-colored blanket folded at the foot of the couch, she shakes it open and pulls it over herself. I watch as she nuzzles it like she’s seeking comfort. Like she’s safe.

She rocks herself, and her eyes close shut. I wonder if she’s playing music when I see her swaying slightly. She isn’t on guard but… vulnerable.

For a split second, a voice in the back of my mind whispers—what if sheisn’twhat they say? What if she isn’t our enemy? What if?—

No.I crush the thought as quickly as it comes. The evidence is right in front of my face. She’s a liar. And now she’s mine.

My cock throbs, and my jaw clenches. Safe is a fucking illusion.

She doesn’tgetto feel safe. Not when she fucked over my family and would do it again.

Not when she belongs to me.

I tighten my grip around my cock, dragging my fist slow and deliberate, my breath coming harder. I imagine her beneath me, frantic, her breathing desperate as she begs for me. My free hand fists the end of the scarf, pressing it to my face to inhale her scent like an addict. It's soft between my fingers, softer than I expected. I imagine it still holds her warmth, and I bury my face in it, fisting it tighter. I jerk my cock, groaning against the fabric like a fucking animal.

She should be mine.She should be curled up in my bed, undermysheets… underme.Not playing house with the goddamn fucking Irish.

I watch as she stretches again, takes another bite, and settles under the blanket. She shifts beneath it, burrowing deeper, and I shift, too, my grip tightening. She licks the last of the ice cream off her spoon, and my fist strokes harder. She licks, and I stroke.

Lick.

Stroke.

Lick.

Stroke.

It’s obscene the way we move together, and she has no idea I’m even here. She sighs and bites her lip.

If she knew what she was doing to me, would she slow her tongue? Or would she lick faster, tease me?

I come so damn hard, biting her scarf between my teeth like it’s a fucking bit. I imagine marking her.

She has no fucking idea who I am.

But she will.