Page 21 of Irish Brute

By the time I get home, my eyes feel like they’re being scraped with sandpaper every time I blink. My fingers are heavy sausages on the scrap of satin in my left hand. I set my right palm to the safe room entrance.

Samantha pushes herself upright from the couch, blinking her way back to wakefulness. Her dress is wrinkled like she’s nested in it, and her hair’s undone. She has a crease on her cheek that matches the stitching on the sofa.

The television is swung out from the wall, so I know she found the gun safe. She doesn’t have access to it yet. She won’t until I’ve added her to the short list of people allowed in this room—and she’s proven she knows what to do with the weapons inside.

“Good morning,” I say, passing over her handbag.

Her fingers clutch the white fabric like a lifeline. “What time is it?”

“Going on six. In the morning,” I clarify, because time plays games when you’re locked in a place like this.

“I want to go home,” she says.

“You are home.”

“Myhome. Dover.”

“Not gonna happen.”

She gestures at her mussed skirt. “This was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You treated me like I was a child!”

“I needed you safe.”

“Do you have any idea— Your men— Madden and Eoghan— They could have taken me anywhere!”

“They took you where I told them to go.”

“What right?—”

“I’m your husband.”

“I’m not your property.”

“No. You’re my wife. I promised to cherish you. That includes protecting you from madmen like Russo.”

The sound she makes is pure frustration, a shriek that doesn’t quite break free from her throat. “I want an annulment.”

“No.”

“I’ll tell Father Brennan. We didn’t consummate?—”

“Stop.” I’m too tired for this. Tired and angry and sad at the lives that didn’t need to be lost in the last twenty-four hours.

I’ve stood in front of a priest twice in my life, vowing to love and honor a wife. I didn’t get to take that woman to bed either time.

At least Samantha’s snow-white gown is only wrinkled. I blink away the image of blood-soaked satin, of ruined embroidery, of crimson lace in that other chapel, in front of that other altar, when I failed that other wife.

“But—” Samantha says.

I cut her off, like I wish I could cut off the past. “Three women died yesterday. And another four are in hospital.”

“Wh— what happened?” At least she’s stopped demanding the impossible.

“Russo.”