Page 44 of Irish Vice

17

BRAIDEN

Ileave Madden in my office, nursing a broken jaw and some kicked-in ribs. It’s no more than I gave him when we were lads, and less than he deserves, but I don’t have time to pay the full bill now.

Fiona’s pressed against the wall in the hallway, like she was blown there in a storm. She cocks her hip and starts to say something, and I don’t trust she can get it out without my needing to kill her. “Don’t start,” I say, wagging a finger in her face. She’s smart enough to shut her feckin’ gob.

Before I’ve caught my breath, I’m pounding on the pool house door, hard enough to make the glass rattle in its frame. “Open up, Samantha!”

Of course, she doesn’t do it.

I kick at the lock, but the bolt is better than it looks. The wood around it shudders but holds fast. “I’m coming in, Samantha. Make this easy on yourself.”

Nothing.

She told me once that I wasn’t allowed in the pool house without her express permission. But that was pretty much an engraved invitation she just left on my lap.

Besides, I’m her Dom. I decide when I get to enter.

I whirl to the pool deck behind me. There’s seating all around—chaise lounges framed in metal with matching chairs and tables. The three-legged tables are light for my needs, but one of those chairs will work a wonder.

It helps that all the momentum of my swing is focused on one metal leg. The glass door cracks on the first blow. I swing again, and a fist-size web of tempered squares breaks away. One more arc, and the entire door falls inside, shattering into a million jagged pieces.

The window shade sways crazily as I barge in, not bothering with lock or knob. I wade through the crumpled remains of the glass, ignoring its crunch underfoot.

She’s crouching at the foot of the bed. As I crash over to her, she scrambles like a crab, trying to flee sideways. I get one hand over her biceps and haul her to her feet.

“No,” she’s chanting. “No, no, no.”

But she’s not looking at me. She doesn’t seem to know I’m leaving a perfect ring of bruises on her arm.

She’s staring at the glass.

It’s spread like a fan across the floor, turning to crystal fire in the light above the sink. There’s more of it than I thought there would be. One door shouldn’t fill the room.

“No,” she cries. “No, please, no.” Her palm is pressed against her temple, sealed to the line where her hair meets her face.

For just a moment, I think she’s bleeding. But then I realize I’ve trapped her in her past.

She stood at a window and watched her parents’ car explode. She was caught in a shower of glass that night. She still bears the scars today, the web of white worms she’s covering now.

“You’re not Giovanna,” I growl, pulling her hand from her face. “You’re Samantha Kelly.”

She stares at me like I’m shining with the fire of Pentecost.

“You’re Samantha Kelly,” I repeat, and I press her collar into her throat with the weight of my thumb. “And you’re fucking mine. Say it.”

She stares.

I shake her. Hard. “Say it,piscín,”

Her teeth chatter. “I— I’m Samantha Kelly.”

“And?”

“I’m fucking yours.”

I clutch her hair and use it to pull her close enough to kiss. Her lips move like a drowning woman’s. She’s hot and she’s wet and I could drink her for hours if I didn’t have another point to make.