Page 54 of Irish Vice

Fiona opens her mouth. Closes it. Judging by her outfit, the afternoon has just taken a dramatic turn from whatever activity she was doing—or intended to do—with her would-be fiancé.

But she’s boxed herself in now. She turns away, head held high, gaze straight ahead. Her steps on the kitchen tile sound like gunshots.

“I’ll get the broom,” Braiden says.

“A mop might work better,” I say.

“Mop it is, then.”

And he handles the clean-up as efficiently as he does everything else.

It’s only as I put the few surviving eggs into the fridge that I remember I’m still wearing bunny ears. But Braiden hasn’t forgotten. He nuzzles the back of my neck, and the heat of his body kindles something deep inside me. “Come upstairs,” he says.

“Aiofe,” I reply, because I don’t want the child watching me trail into his room.

“She’ll be drawing, or reading her books.” His fingers slipbeneath the elastic band of my yoga pants, and I catch my breath at how quickly he can set a rhythm that drives me mad.

“Fiona, then,” I gasp.

“She’ll be taking orders from her da.” He turns me around, pressing my shoulders against the cold fridge door. He pins one knee between mine.

“Not here,” I say. Not against the refrigerator. Not over the granite counter. Not on the hard tile floor.

He could order me to stay here and, collar or not, I’d obey. I need him, even though I’m still sore from all the other punishment I’ve had this week. I’m starving for him, like I starve for the air I breathe.

But he listens. He cares. He half-pulls, half-carries me into the mudroom. I don’t see which coats he tosses onto the floor. I only know that he covers them with a green plaid blanket, the one Fairfax keeps on hand for picnics.

After Braiden shakes out our makeshift bed, he tugs me down, covering my lips with his, smothering my body with his, matching all his roughness to the soft, wet heat inside me.

And through it all, he tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me he needs me. He tells me I’m his.

And I drink down every word, grasping every urgent syllable, as if they can drown out Birte’s evil little whisper at the back of my mind:Punish the liar. Punish the liar. Punish the liar.

21

BRAIDEN

Fiona’s by the door to the infirmary, slouched against the paneling. Her shoulders are back, her arms crossed over her chest. The sole of one foot rests against the wall behind her.

She’s been waiting a while. Samantha and I took our time downstairs.

I’m not about to justify what I’ve done.

Instead, I say, “No,” and turn toward my bedroom, my shower, and my clean clothes.

“No, what?” She pushes off the wall and hurries around to stop me.

“No, whatever you’re about to say.”

“No, that wasn’t a God-awful mess in the kitchen?” Her lips twist into a challenging smile.

“Accidents happen.” I shrug, as if I scrub down floors and counters every day.

“No, you don’t want me out of your house by midnight?” she tries, and this time, she cocks a knowing hip.

“Stop playing games, Fiona.” I try to shoulder past, but she doesn’t give an inch.

“No, you didn’t just get the ride of your life downstairs?”