Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nora

K ate pulls into the driveway along the side of my house and smiles over at me. “That went well, right? I mean, we got Tanya’s wake set up and the Legend owner seemed nice. As shitty as today was, we did our girl proud.”

“We did.” I fidget with my purse strap, wincing as my shoulder protests the movement. “I’ll print off some pictures from my phone and arrive at the pub early to help set up.”

“I’ll pick you up. It’ll be easier than you bringing stuff on the bus.”

I appreciate that more than she knows. “Let me know if you hear anything from Legend.”

“I will. They told me they’re looking to train the new staff for next weekend. We should hear something soon.”

The thought of working together at the nightclub has me excited about going to work, for once.

“What kind of notice do you have to give to the library?”

“The standard two weeks. I’m not too worried. Even if I work both jobs for a couple of weeks, the shifts won’t overlap. I might get tired, but it’ll be an even better paycheck by the end of the month.

Because without Tanya, instead of a third of the expenses, I’ll be responsible for half. Should we consider inviting someone else to join us and split the costs?

The thought of replacing Tanya makes my stomach whirl.

No. For now, we focus on working hard, earning great tips, and waiting until we can manage with just the two of us.

A white delivery van crawls to a stop at the curb in front of my house. It’s not uncommon for my father to receive packages, so I gather my purse and grip the handle of the door. I step out of Kate’s car, trying not to grimace as my body reminds me of yesterday’s tumble.

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

“It’s not if I hear anything, it’s when I hear,” she corrects. “Until then, get some rest, okay? I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at six.”

“Thanks. See you then.”

The delivery guy meets me halfway up the walk, balancing an enormous gift basket wrapped in emerald green cellophane and tied with an elaborate silver bow. “Nora Kelly?”

“Uh…yes, that’s me.” I prop the unwieldy package against my hip while reaching over to scrawl my signature on his electronic pad. When I finish, I thank him and move to the door. I wait until he drives away before I set the basket down and turn my back to the road.

My father might think I’m oblivious to the dangers of the world, but I’ve always paid attention to his safety teachings.

When I’ve got the door unlocked, I get inside, the cellophane packaging crinkling under my arm. Inside, I set the basket on the hallway table while I hang up my jacket and purse.

I pull the card tied to the ribbons and nestled among the folds of the packaging. My heart skips a beat reading the note: “Hoping this helps on a tough day. Take care of yourself, angel.”

It’s from Brendan—it must be.

My cheeks warm at the endearment, and I hear his voice in my head when I reread the card. Take care of yourself, angel. Yum. The way the deep timbre of his voice vibrates inside me when he calls me that is like some kind of aphrodisiac tuning fork.

I take the basket and slog my way up to my room and set it on my desk. I mentioned to my father that a man tackled me out of the line of fire, but thankfully he was too enraged at me not calling him to take notice and ask questions. If he sees this basket sitting in the living room, I might as well sit myself down in one of his interrogation rooms and expect to be handcuffed to the table.

Using the scissors from my desk drawer, I slice through the plastic film and get my first good look at what he sent me. There’s a large tube of wintergreen heat muscle cream and I laugh out loud.

He said he’d owe me a care basket because I’d be sore today.

He didn’t need to send one…but he sure was right about being sore.

The thought of him going through all this trouble for me makes my stomach flutter. I dig deeper to see what else he sent me. I unpack an assortment of Epsom salt bath bombs—citrus, lavender, lemongrass, and mint.

Then I go for the cookies. They aren’t packaged, store-bought cookies. This is an assorted dozen of freshly baked artisan cookies: raspberry macadamia, banana pudding, s’mores, and red velvet.

“What the heck…” I pull out the two romance novels and giggle when I read the book descriptions on the back cover. What does it mean when a man you just met buys you vampire mafia porn? I give him points for confidence, though. He really went for it.

Beside the novels sits a long lighter and two chunky candles, one of them spiced gingerbread and the other applejack.

And last, there’s a rectangular box wrapped in pretty mint green and purple paper. I rip through that quickly and gasp, staring at the box of a new Apple iPhone 16 Pro Max. “What the hell?”

Did he reuse the box?

I open it up and frown at the sleek, desert titanium phone.

“Seriously?”

The phone rings in my hand and I scream and drop it back in the basket. Smacking my chest, I suck in a couple of rasping breaths and fumble to pick it back up again. “Hello?”

“Hey, angel. I got the notice that you signed for your care package. Do you like it?”

I stare down at the items so thoughtfully assembled and work to wrap my head around the gestures. “I love it, but it’s too much. The cookies and bath bombs would’ve been more than enough, but an iPhone? That’s crazy.”

His deep baritone does sinful things to my insides, even from the other end of the call. “It’s only a phone, angel. Besides, I smashed yours when I tackled you. Replacing it was the least I could do. And my ulterior motive…now you have my number.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and realize that the screen says ‘Brendan’ and there’s a picture of his Harley for a profile image. “I can’t keep the phone, Brendan. It’s too much.”

He grunts on the other end of the line. “The way I look at it, is this: Something terrible happened last night. And when the world turns ugly, the only way to heal the damage is for people to raise the bar and extend a hand of kindness. You are suffering today and if I can ease that pain, in any small measure, I want to. That means I want you to let me.”

I think about that, and my breathing tightens. “But it’s very expensive.”

He chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mean this to sound gauche, but money isn’t an issue in my life.”

I can’t even imagine being able to say that. Da makes good money and we’ve always been comfortable, but with my sights set on building a life of my own, money is very much a determining factor. “I’m still not sure I can accept.”

“Nora, to me, money means choices. It means I can do what I want and spend it in ways that make me happy. Today it made me happy to do something nice for you. I’ve lost friends and know the emotional weight you’re carrying. And add to that, feeling physically bruised as well. So please, enjoy what I sent you and take care of you.”

I swallow, the sting of tears making me blink quickly to keep from crying. “That is incredibly kind of you, Brendan. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Now, snag a cookie, have a bath, and soak away some of the pain of the day. It’ll make my day to know you’re a bit better than you were. And if you ever need to talk, now you have my number.”

The call ends and I stare at the screen as it goes blank. How crazy is it that a stranger cares so much about my mental wellbeing when my father didn’t?

The simple thoughtfulness of his gift makes my chest tight.

Who is this man?

In my bathroom, I light the candles and drop one of the citrus bath bombs into the steaming water, watching it fizz and spread ribbons of pink and champagne swirls across the surface. While the tub fills, I flip through one of the vampire romance novels.

The dark-haired hero on the inside cover is bulky and protective and embracing his blonde lover as if he wants to possess her. Is that a coincidence or is it supposed to remind me of someone?

Either way, it’ll be perfect escape-reading.

I sink into the hot water and breathe the citrus bliss deep into my lungs. If Brendan wants me to indulge and take care of myself, I will. And if reading this book has me wanting to take care of myself in more intimate ways…I’ll think of Brendan as I do.

Brendan

I need to get my ass in gear.

After dropping Bryan and Petey at the safe house, I made my way to the docks to take care of something Tag needs handled. But before I headed inside, I got the message that my delivery for Nora had been signed for.

I couldn’t resist calling her.

As I expected, she loved her basket. And also, as I expected, she balked at accepting the phone. Doesn’t matter. I had my answer ready and sweet-talked her into keeping it.

She deserves it. She deserves all the things.

And now she has my phone number.

And is likely naked and soaking in a tub.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, wishing I could’ve given her the basket in person. Then maybe I could’ve been soaking in that tub with her instead of sporting a granite-hard cock halfway across the city.

But that’s where I am.

Exhaling a breath of regret, I kill the engine and pull the keys of the ignition. Normally I’d be driving my ‘69 Dodge Charger or my bike, but with our hospital pick up, Tag told me to take one of the family SUVs so the kid would be comfortable.

My phone pings and I frown down at the screen. Speaking of Tag…

Are you there, yet? What have you got?

Aye, I’m here. Going in now.

Tag wants answers and needs me to extract them. It doesn’t matter if I’d rather spend some time alone with my hand on my cock and Nora’s luscious tits in my mind. All that matters is that I get my head in the fucking game and focus on the McGuire bastard waiting for me inside the warehouse.

The Quinn warehouses stretch over several docks in several ports. Da didn’t believe in putting all our eggs in one basket and that has served us well enough over the decades our family has run north Dublin that there’s no reason to change things now.

The door slams shut behind me, and I tuck the keys into the pocket of my leather jacket. Frenchie and Drake stand outside the massive structure, leaning against the wall like they’re holding the place up. The two of them are a solid pairing, and Sean keeps them together when there’s work to be done. Frick and Frack…just with leather and guns.

The funny thing is that Frenchie isn’t French. He’s a big black man from the Netherlands with an incredibly thick Dutch accent. When Sean first brought him to the club, some eejit pledge commented about not understanding him because he didn’t speak French.

And it stuck.

Drake is a squat brawler with a buzz cut from Liverpool. We inherited him from the Watson family who run London. A job went sideways, and they needed Drake out of the spotlight and out of their territory.

He’s been with us ever since.

As I approach, Frenchie extends a hand, and I meet him palm-to-palm. “Afternoon, boss. Have you been sent to have some fun with our new friend?”

“Aye, Tag considers it a warm-up match before Sunday night.”

Frenchie grunts. “Paddy the Predator is a tough one. Are you worried?”

I scoff. “Have you ever known me to be worried about stepping into the cage with anyone, Frenchie?”

“No, sir. I have not.”

“Damn straight.” I meet Drake’s gaze where the weathered biker is standing there hauling on his smoke. “So, where’s our guest?”

Drake gestures with a tilt of his chin. “Tied down in the dungeon. He’s sweating like a virgin on prom night but clammed up tighter than a duck’s ass.”

They always do . If they didn’t, I’d be out of a job.

I stroll past the two Devils and head straight into the darkened depths of the warehouse. The lights are off and that’s good—they know I don’t like the brightness of fluorescent lights when I work. I prefer the lights to be out and the shadows to stretch and twist and play with the mind of my prey.

The dungeon is what the boys call our room of bloody horrors. We let the deep, oxblood stains soak into the concrete and have our tools of torture laid out on the back table, so that while our guests sit and wait for their punishment, their imaginations can run wild.

Much of what Bryan and I do is psychological—with our reputations preceding us, our guests know what they’re in for. Of course, it’s no fun if they break too soon. That would deprive us of our favorite part of the job.

Getting bloody.

Blood isn’t for everyone. I think it’s rather beautiful. Bryan and I both get off on blood—maybe it’s a twin thing, and it’s in our DNA. Or maybe we were conditioned for it because of our upbringing. Either way, for us, the smell, sight, and texture of blood releases something euphoric in our system.

A fetish? That’s possible.

Fists, knives, piercings? All good.

Is it sexual? Sometimes, but certainly not always. I mean…I might beat someone to a bloody pulp and have no sexual connection with them, but will take that drive and put it to good use with someone else.

Our little deviance isn’t public knowledge by any means, but I’m sure Sean and Tag suspect. Doesn’t matter. They’ve got their own deviant traits to contend with and our thing with blood suits us well, being the enforcers of the family.

I unhook the padlock on the door to the dungeon and step inside. The room’s lighting is on a dimmer and set low, but is still bright enough to illuminate the skinny guy with dark hair sticking to his forehead and panic flashing in his eyes.

He knows he’s in deep trouble.

“Welcome to the Northside. I’m Brendan Quinn and you are…?”

They never answer, but it’s an easy way to get the dialogue started. Of course, I don’t need him to answer because we’ve got his wallet. He’s Malcom Myers, and he’s one of Niall McGuire’s men.

“Why am I here? What do you want?” His voice shakes slightly, but he’s doing his best to front and sound tough.

I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of his cheap cologne mixed with adrenaline. “I want you to tell me why you were snooping around our production warehouse. You had nothing on you, so either you were doing recon or were caught before you got to it. Either way, you fucked up.”

His jaw clenches. Does he think that makes him brave?

“Come on, Malcom. You’ll tell me sooner or later. You don’t want to drag this out, do you?”

Drake joins us, the Devil cracking his knuckles loudly before letting a smirk creep across his scarred lip. “He likely thinks it’ll be better if he stays quiet.”

I peg the guy with a smile. “That’s fine. It’ll be more fun if you don’t tell me…but in the end, you’ll be spilling your guts.”

“They always do.”

True story. “And honestly, I’m a busy man, so if you tell me, it will not only save me time, it’ll be over quicker for you and with less blood loss.”

Not that less blood loss is a plus for me, but I’ll deal.

The guy glances between Drake and me like he’s weighing his options.

“I ain’t saying shit!” he spits defiantly, a spray of saliva landing on my boot.

I laugh, low and deep. The rumble reverberates through my chest like a starting bell at the beginning of the first round, ringing loud and clear. “Even better. The ‘no blood’ option was for you, not me. I’m happy for you to hold out as long as you can. I’m not called the Dublin Brute for no reason. It’s a well-earned title.”

The name seems to strike a chord with him. If he didn’t realize who I was, he knows now, and it seems being told has made him wish he wore his brown boxers today.

A familiar rush of adrenaline and power course through me. It’s the same high I get before a fight—when I know I get to inflict pain on someone who deserves it.

It’s fucking addictive.

“Let’s see how long you hold out. Frenchie, set the timer.”

Frenchie’s attention flips to his phone as he pulls up a timer app. “Ready when you are, Mr. Quinn.”

I smile at the formality in front of our guest. Sean has schooled his boys well. We might be casual at the MC clubhouse, but when eyes are on us, the five of us are Dublin fucking royalty.

I turn to the McGuire lackey and silence stretches on like an elastic band ready to snap. I clench my fists and tilt my head from side to side, stretching the tension out of my neck and shoulders. The anticipation of what’s coming is building inside me—a storm brewing just below the surface.

Tag gave this one to me because he knew I’d need an outlet after last night—knew I’d need somewhere to put my anger about innocent women being shot down and shot at right in front of me.

How convenient the McGuires sent one of their own into our territory for me to play with. It was downright neighborly of them.

Drake pulls out a chair and slams it down beside our captive while Frenchie sets his phone on the back bench next to our persuasion tools.

“You sure about this, Mr. Quinn?” Frenchie asks, adding to the foreboding of what’s coming. “The last time got bad…really bad.”

I pretend to look dire and then dip my chin. “Aye, there’s no help for it. Tag wants answers—whatever it takes. We don’t leave here until this piece of shite talks or will never talk again.”

Sweat trickles down the guy’s temple.

I grin wider. This is where I thrive: under pressure, panic swirling around like falling ash after an explosion.

“All right, lads.” I stand tall, rubbing my hands together as I get into the groove. “Let’s have us some fun.”