Page 36 of Irish Brute

His agreement deflates all the arguments that clamor inside my skull. Absurdly, ridiculously, I nod toward the table. “I don’t like oatmeal.”

“I’ll tell Fairfax not to serve it again.”

“And I want coffee. Instead of tea.”

I can’t tell if he’s grimacing or fighting not to laugh at me. “Fairfax will have some here by noon.”

“Fine,” I say, because I hardly recognize the amiable man at the head of the table.

“Fine,” he agrees. “Come now,cailín,” he says to Aiofe. “Mr. Bell will be waiting for you in the nursery. A kiss before you turn into a scholar.”

She crosses to his chair and brushes her lips against his cheek.

“Go on, then,” he says. “The pair of you.”

He doesn’t ask me for a kiss, and he doesn’t offer one of his own. Which is fine, I tell myself as Aiofe drags herself toward the stairs. I scowl as Braiden watches her fondly, and then I bite my lip. I’m jealous of a ten-year-old.

My husband looks at me, eyebrows peaked as if he’s waiting for another round of argument. I’m disgusted with him, but I’m even more upset with myself.

This isn’t how marriage is supposed to be. I’m a strong woman. An independent woman. I’m supposed to be an equal, willing partner.

I should never have let him spank me. I shouldn’t have enjoyed it when he did. And I definitely shouldn’t be standing in the man’s dining room, shifting my weight to ease the heat on my bruised ass, wondering what he has in store for the next time I refuse to give in.

Shaking my head at my own weak will, I resign myself to the next three days without my computer. I’m almost out the door when Braiden says, “Samantha.”

I turn to face him so he won’t think he’s won. “Braiden,” I answer, doing my best to match his tone.

“I know this is difficult for you.”

“With all due respect, you don’t know much about me at all.”

“I know more than you think I do,mo chailín maith.”

“What does that mean?”

“You won’t like it, if I tell you.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what I like and don’t like?”

“Trust me,” he says.

He isn’t asking. He’s ordering. Every fiber of my bruised pride—not to mention my aching ass—wants to refuse. Butthere’s nothing Braiden has ever done to harm me. Even when he spanked me, he gave me the out of a safeword.

So I pay him the courtesy of an honest reply. “I can’t,” I say. “Not yet.”

“You will.”

I want to argue. But more than that, I want him to be right. So I leave the room without another word, intent on finding some way to fill this honeymoon day, alone, while my husband works to run his mobster empire.

15

BRAIDEN

Madden strides into my office like he’s the Captain of the Fishtown Boys, flopping onto the sofa against the far wall hard enough to make the oak frame groan. I authorized his credentials for the front gate two and a half years ago, after he swore his personal oath of loyalty to me. Fairfax knows to give him full access to the house, but my brother’s casual disregard for my home makes my fingers tighten on my letter opener.

“Don’t wait for Patrick,” he says. “He’s still handling Commissioner Washington.”

“Youshould be handling Washington.” Knocking over three clubs in a morning requires more than a simple phone call to make the police look the other way. A decently stuffed envelope has to change hands, which means a trip to a back alley, or to one of the city parks in the northern suburbs, somewhere no security camera can pick up the transaction.