Page 15 of Irish Vice

“Itisn’t!” She’s loud enough that I’m glad I paid handsomely to soundproof this room. “You lied to me!”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Bullshit!”

“Samantha,” I say, pitching my voice to the level I wish she’d use.

She may not realize it, but she lowers her voice. “You found a fake priest to marry us. You let me stand in that church and say my vows and believe it all was real. You actually thought that wouldn’t hurt when I found out?”

I prayed she’d never learn the truth. But now I say, “I was trying to protect you.”

She snorts in derision. “You wanted to make sure I have no claim on you. So you can walk away whenever you want.”

I shake my head. “I never want to leave you.” In my head, in my heart, I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying to keep her from wedding a married man. “What do you want?” I finally ask. “How can I make this right?”

“You can’t!” She spits the words. That venom’s intended for me, but there’s a healthy dose of loathing for herself.

“None of this is your fault,” I tell her.

“I want to believe that.”

“It’s the truth. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have done anything different.”

“But I can now.” She says the words like they’re a curse. “I should leave. Walk out that door and never set foot in this house again. I should sleep in my car or go back to the freeport or stay in a fucking hotel. I should…” She swallows the rest of her sentence, as if there are too many words, as if they’re too hard to say out loud.

She has too many options. Too many choices. Too many decisions to make.

She became my sub because I told her exactly what to do. I gave her one clear path. I carried all her burdens for a while, giving her a chance to rest.

And I can do that again.

So I say, “Drop that goddamn shirt.” I use my Captain’s voice, carving away every path but one.

She hesitates for long enough that I think I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

No. It would only be the second biggest. Hiring Father Brennan was worse.

Still no. Third biggest mistake. The worst was failing to tell her about Birte from the very beginning. And I’ll live with that for the rest of my life.

But then Samantha drops the shirt, and I glimpse a narrow path toward redemption.

“On your knees,” I order, pointing to the floor.

She’s about to do it. Her face clears. Her knees sway.

But she pulls herself straight before she gives in. She closes her hand over my wrist. “If I do this,” she says. “You have to do something for me.”

“I’ll do something for you,” I growl.

She shakes her head. “Promise,” she says.

This isn’t right. She’s my sub. I’m her Dom.

But she isn’t wearing her collar yet. And she’ll never put it on if I don’t ask, “Promise what?”

“If you won’t get a doctor in here for Aiofe and Birte, bring in someone they can trust. A priest. A real one. Not Father Brennan.”

I start to protest. I need to protect the Fishtown Boys, keep prying eyes from Thornfield.