Page 69 of Irish Vice

This is the first time I’ve needed to negotiate the bloodsuckers on my own. Braiden and Liam have always made it seem simple, keeping a slow, steady pace to the property line, as if they’re easing past rabid dogs in the middle of the road.

It’s harder than it looks. Too fast, and I chance clipping one of the crazies with my front bumper. Too slow, and they can swarm my windows, blinding me with their cameras.

I finally make it to the gatehouse without causing a disaster. An extra man stands inside the shelter, his hands locked on amachine gun. Looking toward the house, I realize three more guards wait just inside the fence, similarly armed. Thornfield looks like it’s under military siege.

Swallowing hard, I place my sweating palm on the electronic reader. I stare directly into the laser that scans my retinas. I focus hard so I don’t blink.

A century goes by before the gate starts to roll back. The extra guards scowl at the paparazzi and the protesters. They don’t shift their weapons as I drive past, not even a millimeter.

Somehow, I expect Liam to be waiting at the garage, but he’s nowhere in sight as I back the Mercedes into its bay. I start to return my keys to their hook on the wall, but then I hesitate. This morning, I taught Braiden how easy it was for me to take my car. Given my refusal to respond to his voicemails and texts, I’m certain I’ll have a much harder time leaving in the future.

I pocket the keys and slip out of the garage.

The guards at the gate must have let Braiden know I’m home. I imagine him waiting for me in the dining room or—worse—in the bedroom we once shared.

I can’t confront him tonight. I’m stiff from sitting in the car for so many hours. My arms are tired from gripping the wheel. The roof of my mouth hums a little, now that I’m finally free of the moving car’s vibrations.

Tomorrow is soon enough to face Braiden Kelly.

Making my way around the corner of the house, I take the path to the back, to the pool, to my own private apartment. I miss the lock on my first try. I’m even more tired than I thought. It turns easily, though, on my second attempt.

I kick off my shoes the instant I step over the threshold. Crossing to the sink, I fill a glass of water from the tap and drink it down without stopping. I haven’t eaten a real meal all day—just a few spoonfuls of yogurt before breakfast became a battle—but the thought of food leaves me nauseated. I hang my head and dig my fingertips into the nape of my neck, trying to massage away my miserable day.

“House. Rules.”

I catch a scream at the back of my throat, already recognizing Braiden’s voice before I turn toward the bed. He’s sitting on the edge of the high mattress, dressed all in black—jacket, shirt, trousers, even his necktie.

“Jesus,” I say. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“That was my intention.” His voice is flat, as if he’s reading lines from a cue card. He repeats his first two words: “House. Rules.”

I stifle a groan. I’ve broken every one of his fucking house rules today. I didn’t eat all my breakfast. I worked long past six—if confronting the woman who threatened my life can be called work. I’m still dressed in my charcoal suit, no hint of the flowery skirt I’m required to wear at the end of every day. And I am absolutely, positively wearing panties.

“Not tonight, Braiden,” I say. “I’m exhausted.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck how tired you are?”

“Fine,” I snap. “Tie me up. Smack me around. Want to beat me with your belt? Go ahead. Just get it over with. I don’t need my collar.”

There once was a whore, wore a collar…

He rises from the bed like a cobra striking. One hand clamps my left wrist. The other pinches the nape of my neck. Before I know what’s happened, he has me bent over the edge of the bed.

I know how to defend myself; I’ve taken classes and worked one-on-one with trainers. I understand how to turn toward a captor, how to shift my body so I can use his weight against him. I’m well versed in going for eyes, for the soft flesh beneath a nose. I can jam the heel of my hand into a man’s Adam’s apple or drop him with a sharp blow to the crotch.

But Braiden’s too big for any of that. He’s too big and he’s too heavy and he’s too furious for me to shift him even one inch. He’s crushing me, all his weight on the small of my back. Withmy cheek pressed into the mattress, I can barely draw a breath, much less fight for freedom.

“Open your eyes, Samantha.”

I didn’t realize I’d closed them.

He squeezes his fingers around the base of my skull. “Open your goddamn eyes.”

I do. And for a moment, I can’t figure out what I’m staring at. The room is too dark. My heart is racing too fast. I’m fighting too hard to draw a full breath against the weight of the man on top of me.

But I blink. And I look again. And I realize I’m staring down the barrel of a pistol.

It’s on top of the comforter, nestled amid tulips and honeysuckle. Braiden can reach it easily from his position on my spine. He could plant the muzzle at the base of my skull and pull the trigger. The bedclothes would catch most of the mess.