Page 16 of Irish Vice

But there are two reasons I’ll do it. One: Samantha is the one who asked. And two: It’s the right thing to do.

“Fine,” I say. “I promise. I’ll bring someone in tomorrow.”

She stares at me, like she’s trying to read my mind.

I’ve lied to her before. But my arm is still bandaged from that bullet. I’m not lying now.

“Fine,” she says, carefully matching my tone. And she sinks to the floor, her flowered skirt floating prettily around her knees. She looks up at me, her face open. Honest. Free.

“I need my collar,” she says. And then, after the slightest of pauses, she adds the word my heart covets most. “Sir.”

7

SAMANTHA

He locks the emerald around my throat. My pulse beats hard against the stone, telegraphing an awareness to every cell in my body.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t give in to my body’s physical needs. But when Braiden issued his command—drop that goddamn shirt—everything became clear in my head. All the noise, all the doubt, all the questions I’ve asked myself since I first saw Birte in the dining room—everything dropped away, like sugar crystallizing at the bottom of a cup of too-sweet tea.

Braiden walks around me now, studying me from every angle. I want to say something, beg him to tie me up, plead with him to go down on me. But I’m wearing the collar now. I don’t get to speak.

No.

I don’thaveto speak.

I don’t have to make any decisions. I just have to do what I’m told to do. That’s the bargain we’ve made.

But does the collar still work, now that I know he’s lied to me? He’s covered up his past. Can I forget that for long enough to silence the voice nagging at the back of my head—the one that says I need to take charge, need to put the world in order, need to advocate for everything I believe in?

What will happen if the paparazzi learn about the things I’ve let Braiden do to me? How many stories will I face in the press then? What if the ethics board concludes I’m sexually depraved? Will that be the last straw before they yank my law license?

Braiden snaps his fingers, a bare inch from my nose. “Stop thinking,” he commands.

He’s told me that before. Then, I didn’t think it was possible. I didn’t believe I could unzip my brain, that I could step outside my circling thoughts.

But now I try to focus on my body instead of my mind. My nipples tighten against the satin cups of my bra. A slow ripple of desire churns through my belly and tension tightens my thighs, settling into my knees’ soft ache.

A door slams somewhere in the house, a vibration I feel instead of a sound that I hear. I wonder if Birte’s up to some mischief with her newfound freedom from the attic. If Aiofe’s protesting her bedtime without saying a word. If Fiona’s marking her territory, or Madden’s making sure he isn’t forgotten in his brother’s house.

Or maybe it’s just the wind.

“Eyes on me,” Braiden says, and I realize I’ve been staring at the door, waiting for someone to turn the knob, to test the lock.

I swallow hard, but I do as I’m told. I meet his fierce gaze.

“My God,” he says. “You’re gorgeous.” His fingers find the sore spot on my throat, the place where Madden pressed his pistol. “What happened here,piscín?”

I could tell him. I could let him know Madden threatened me. But if I say that, I’ll have to admit Madden still thinks I’m spying for Russo.

I don’t want Antonio Russo in this bedroom. I don’t want to think about what he did to my cousin. I don’t want to remember how he released my darkest secret to the entire world. I don’t want to wonder if the man who tried to kill me last night was sent by Russo, if the truce between the Mafia don and Braiden is over and now we’re back at war.

Swallowing hard to drown out the long-remembered scent of Russo’s Acqua di Parma cologne, I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” He presses a little harder into the bruise.

“No. It really doesn’t,” I say.

“You’re the girl on her knees. You don’t get to decide what matters and what doesn’t.”