Page 102 of Irish Vice

“Is liomsa tú,” he agrees.You are mine.

“I love you,” I tell him. The words are simple and clear. Easy to say because they’re a perfect truth.

“I loveyou.” Then, “Close your eyes. Rest a while.”

I do what he says. I close my eyes. And because he’s Braiden, because I trust him, because I’m still wearing his collar, I sleep.

47

SAMANTHA

Idon’t dream. I don’t toss and turn, seeking a more comfortable position. I don’t fight my pillow.

I just sleep.

And when I wake, I can’t tell how long I’ve been out. Only a few hours, I guess, because it’s still dark outside. But I’m so well-rested—despite our marathon reunion—that I feel like I’ll never sleep again.

Braiden and I are spooning, his chest to my back. His arm falls loosely across my hip. He’s kept his claim, even in sleep.

When I slide to the edge of the bed, he murmurs, reaching out for the warmth he’s lost. I turn back to kiss his cheek, and he mutters, but he’s out again before he fully awakes.

It’s chilly in the bedroom. Our clothes are strewn around the bed. I can’t imagine putting on my suit again. I settle for Braiden’s black T-shirt and his rumpled boxer shorts.

There’s something else on the floor. It’s by the door, as if someone dropped off a hotel bill while we were sleeping.

A paper. Printed on heavy bond. There’s an ornate border and heavy black letters, like a diploma. The words are partially obscured by a large dark stamp. I can make out three signatures at the bottom, but it’s too dark to read any details.

I take it over to the window and tilt it toward the moonlight.

Annulled, says the one word printed across all the others.

My eyes fill. I fight to pick out the names written on the fancy document. Braiden Fergal Kelly. Birte Antóinín Mason.

At least, that’s what it used to say. Someone has scribbled through Birte’s name, using a blood-red crayon. The lines are sloppy. Frantic. I squint at the rest of the wording, but even by the window, I can’t make out the small print.

Looking up from the paper, I realize it’s not emotion clouding my senses. Wisps of smoke are stealing in around the door.

“Braiden!” I shout.

Even as his name leaves my lips, a piercing siren slices through the room—the smoke detector on the ceiling, just inside the door. The electronic box shoots a beam of light onto the floor, and a mechanical voice announces, “A fire has been detected. Leave the building at once. A fire has been detected. Leave the building at once. A?—”

“Samantha!” Braiden roars. He’s tugging on the pants he discarded last night. He shoves his feet into his abandoned shoes, not bothering with socks.

Dazed, I say, “I’m fine.”

He’s cursing in Irish, laying his palm against the door. He tries to listen too, but no one could hear over the smoke detector.

This doesn’t make sense. This isn’t possible. Madden bombed the garage. The garage was on fire. Madden’s dead on the infirmary table. There’s no way he started another fire in the house.

“Stand back,” Braiden says, but I’m already back. I’mhovering by the bed, looking at the windows, trying to remember how far a drop it is to the ground from the second floor.

I watch as Braiden cracks open the door. I don’t need to be standing beside him to hear the roar of the flames outside. His face flashes orange before he slams the door closed again.

“Birte!” I say. “And Grace.”

This time he doesn’t bother swearing. He grabs his phone on the nightstand and unlocks the screen. Tossing it to me, he orders, “Call 911.” I don’t need his Captain’s voice to make me tap the numbers.

He’s in the bathroom, running water.