Page 6 of Irish Vice

“That can’t happen,” he says.

“You’ve kept a woman imprisoned for seven years! She deserves?—”

“It’s not a prison up there.”

“What doyoucall it, then? She’s locked behind a door that no one is allowed to touch.”

“I’m protecting her! Keeping her safe.”

“From what?”

“From herself. From the world. You don’t understand how fragile she is.”

“I understand that the first thing she did when she got out ofher cage was to set your office door on fire, with you on the other side. You can’t possibly say that’s normal behavior.”

“It’s not a feckin’ cage,” he insists. “She’s got windows and a piano to play and movies to watch. She eats the same food you and I do. Fairfax knows all her favorites. She has a chapel up there, with stained glass and a velvet-covered kneeler and candles to light every Sunday.”

“Does a priest hear her confession?”

“She’s in no state—” He bites down on his losing argument before he finishes making it.

“What about Aiofe?” I press. “She’s ten years old. How traumatized was she by what she saw at that church?” I think of how withdrawn Aiofe is, how often she behaves like a child half her age. I remember the drawings I’ve seen, her beautiful sketches of a country chapel, of a bride, of a stuffed animal, and a horse cart. I’m willing to bet she carried that toy rabbit at the wedding, that she watched her aunt arrive for the ceremony on that cart.

“She has everything a child could ask for. New dresses. Countless toys. I pay good money for John Bell to tutor her five days a week.”

“If her life is so perfect, why won’t she say a word? Has sheeverspoken to you?”

His own silence is my answer.

“They both need trained professionals who understand trauma.”

“Impossible,” Braiden says.

“How much can it cost? Ten thousand dollars? A hundred? You burn through that in a day.”

“It’s not the fucking money! I can’t bring a therapist to Thornfield. How would I explain the security? Answer basic questions about my income?”

“You answer those questions all the time. You make donations to the Philadelphia Flower Show and say they’re on behalf of Kelly Construction.”

“How will I explain a shrink to my men? What will the security team think at the gate?”

“Whatever the fuck you tell them to think! You’re the man in charge. You make the rules.”

Rules.

That’s what we have between us—all of Braiden’s house rules. Eating breakfast every morning. Not working past six. Wearing flowery skirts instead of my severe black, white, and gray. Not wearing panties.

Braiden shakes his head. “I can’t do it.”

“Youwon’tdo it.”

He shrugs.

He’s stubborn. He’s used to being in charge. He’s built a life where no one ever tells him he’s wrong. He’s the best and the brightest and he always has the biggest dick.

Fuck. I willnotthink about his dick. I won’t think about any of the things we’ve done in bed, any of the ways I’ve debased myself to please him, to satisfy the soft needy bits between my legs.

I turn to leave the room. I have to get my things. Call a cab. Get somewhere safe and figure out how to get Birte and Aiofe the help they need.