Page 98 of Irish Vice

“Piscín,” I say, letting one hand tangle in her hair.

She turns her face and rests her cheek against my palm. “I’ll eat,” she says. And then she straightens. Her spine grows stiff. She’s the one who finds the strength to step away. Eyeing me steadily, she says, “I’ll be here when you get back. Go.”

So I do.

46

SAMANTHA

I’m a little surprised he listens to me.

But Braiden stalks to the bedroom. I keep my distance as he ransacks his dresser, coming up with a clean black T-shirt. I watch him tug it over his head, and then I follow him downstairs as he heads out to manage his empire.

I told him I’d eat. So I go to the kitchen and make myself a plate—cold roast chicken and thick slices of cheddar cheese and a pair of tiny clementines. Rinsing the dish when I’m done, I discover it’s grown quiet outside. Both trucks are gone, along with all the firefighters.

I wonder what Braiden is telling his men. Whether he’s directing them to search for Madden elsewhere in Philadelphia. How long he’ll draw out the charade.

Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s well past midnight. I should be exhausted, especially after my frantic drive from Dover. But I’m not tired at all. Instead, I feel like I’ve drunk a vat of dark roast coffee. Like a million fireflies flutter inside myveins. Like I’m waiting for a starting pistol before a hundred-meter sprint.

I wipe my palms against my wool-covered thighs. I’m still dressed for the office, even though my work day ended hours ago. I should be wearing a skirt. I should be dressed in flowers.

My belly twists in a long, slow somersault.

I don’t want to change. I don’t want to follow the rules. But I’m willing to wait in the bedroom.

It’s another hour before Braiden returns. I hear him long before I see him. He locks the front door. He climbs the stairs. He makes his way down the endless hallway.

And he freezes in the doorway, when he finds me sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair stands on end; he’s been running his fingers through it again. Tight lines bracket his lips, frowning remnants of all the lies he’s told about Madden.

I don’t realize I’ve stood until his arms close around me. He grips me like a drowning man. I feel his heartbeat through his tight black T-shirt.

“Samantha,” he breathes against my hair, melting something deep inside me.

Thisis what I needed, the past week in Dover. The steadiness of his body holding mine. The strength of his certainty.

His fingers tangle in my hair. He brushes his lips against the net of scars at my temple. His soft caress sends a shiver down my spine, and he tightens his arms around me. I barely hear him when he whispers, “You’ve broken the rules,piscín.”

This is what I wanted. This is why I came upstairs. So I sink to my knees before him. I bow my head, like I’m waiting for a crown. When I look up at him through my lashes, I hear his breath catch in his throat.

“Please, sir,” I say, and the words soundright. They’re what I long for. They’re who I am. “Put me in my collar. Teach me the lesson I deserve.”

The platinum is cold when Braiden takes it from its velvet case. I shudder as he settles it around my neck, a deliciouswave rolling from the crown of my head to my toes. He kisses my nape after he fastens the lock, and he makes a show of nestling the key deep in the pocket of his pants. To steady myself, I press the emerald into the hollow of my throat.

He pulls me to my feet and orders, “Out of those feckin’ clothes,piscín.”

He watches me undress, really studies me. I’m suddenly shy as I slip out of my jacket. I’m awkward as I work the button on my pants, as I slide down the zipper. A smirk curls his lips as I shimmy out of the trousers and step free, right foot first, then left. He’s focused on the plain white cotton of my panties, at the suddenly damp V between my thighs. Embarrassed, I turn away to unbutton my top.

“Not on your fucking life,” he says.

I catch my lower lip between my teeth and work the buttons, one by one. The heat of his gaze unleashes a flock of hummingbirds in my belly. I loosen my bra and drop it to the floor. I step out of my panties. And when I’m standing in front of him, wearing only my shoes, I remember the words he told me the first time we met in the safe room, the morning after our wedding.

You’ll be terrified I’ll hurt you and petrified I won’t, and every time you come again you’ll thank God for the day you became my wife.

He’s never lied. He’s never hidden who he is. He’s never pretended he isn’t capable of doing horrific things.

So when he says, “Forearms on the bed,” I know exactly what he’s offering. I know what I’m accepting. My knees threaten to collapse.

I do what he says. I support myself on my arms, gripping the hunter green comforter with both fists.