Page 62 of Irish Brute

“Good morning,” I say, fighting the urge to tug at the hem of my sleep shirt. I speed walk into my own room and close the door behind me.

Shower. Hair. Makeup. Clothes.

I make it to the breakfast table by 9:15. I’m hoping—praying—Braiden will be engrossed in one of his five morning newspapers. Instead, he’s engaged in an animated conversation with his brother, gesturing emphatically at Madden with his butter knife.

He breaks off a statement, mid-word.

“Good morning, Mrs. Kelly,” he says.

His eyes track my every step as I cross the room, his lips curving into a voracious smile. His fingers flex around his knife.

He might as well hire decorators to splash new paint on the wall, floor to ceiling letters that shout, “I fucked my wife last night.”

“Good morning,” I say.

My inability to meet his eyes in front of Madden makes him laugh out loud. “Coffee, love?”

At least he isn’t calling me his kitten. “Please,” I say. And then, because I have some semblance of manners, I force a smile as I turn to my brother-in-law. “How are you this morning, Madden?”

He smirks. “Better rested than some,” he says.

Braiden cuffs him on the ear before setting my coffee on the table.

Before I can take a sip, Fairfax comes in from the kitchen. He’s carrying a covered plate that looks like he stole it from some fancy hotel’s room service. Whisking off the silver lid, he says, “Himself said you’d be delayed this morning. Your eggs will be up in no time.”

Grace. Madden. Fairfax. They all know I spent the night in Braiden’s room. I have no doubt Fairfax already has orders to move my possessions down the hall, to make the transition as if I’d never spent a night in the guest room.

Of course he does. His entire reason for working in this house is to make Braiden’s life easier. My husband is a king. He has an army of servants to do his bidding.

Is this how Eliza felt after she married Don Antonio? Was the Russo house filled with speculation that first morning? What did they hear, the night my cousin lost her virginity to the man who eventually murdered her?

Suddenly, I miss Eliza with a pang so sharp I wonder if I cracked a rib last night. I close my eyes, and I can picture the two of us, huddled under the blanket on her narrow twin bed, gaping at a dirty magazine she found under Gianni’s mattress. We rotate the page left, then right, trying to figure out where all the arms and legs connect to the sweaty, twisted bodies.

Jesus, we were naive children.

She’s gone.

The only reason I’m living in this house is because Braiden chose to spare me from the violence that took my cousin.

“Samantha?” Braiden’s voice cuts into my reverie. I realize I’ve been staring at my coffee like it holds the secret to the universe.

I force a smile as I look up.

“Kelleher’s here,” he says. “Waiting in the surgery.”

I’m not afraid of the doctor, of giving blood, of starting to take the Pill. But I’m mortified that Madden’s watching this exchange.

But Braiden isn’t. Braiden couldn’t care less.

So I put down my coffee. I push back my chair. I head upstairs with my husband, where Dr. Kelleher makes me feel like everything we’re doing is boringly routine. After drawing blood, he recommends a shot instead of pills for birth control. When I agree, he takes care of the injection with taciturn efficiency. After a couple of weeks for my body to adjust, I’ll be protected for three months.

Braiden waits until the doctor leaves before he kisses me. “Be ready to leave at seven this evening,” he says.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” I say.