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Prologue

Carys

17 Years Ago

F inn’s icy gaze is piercing, even from across the crowded Irish bar. Our gazes lock, and he smirks. It’s enough to make me want to toss everyone out of the way, let him lift me onto the scarred wooden surface, and fuck me right here with an audience. Sexual napalm . Being around him is like an explosion in my loins. At twenty-eight, I had no idea a smirk from a man could cause my body to catch fire, until I started sleeping with Finn. I’ll be lucky to escape this affair with only third-degree burns.

“Carys.” Lorcan bumps my shoulder and drinks from his pint of beer. “Did you hear me?”

I toy with my straw, dropping my gaze from Finn’s to respond to his younger brother, Lorcan. “Don’t have a clue what you said. Sorry.”

“I asked how your first day in Ireland was going.”

“Took a couple meetings for my dad.” I shrug. My father is trying to solidify connections here for his arms company, and I volunteered to take the lead on the negotiations. “Business comes before everything else.” My focus strays to Finn again. The pleasure I mixed with my business earlier makes my legs tremble. I bite on my straw.

“Something going on between you two? Finn’s hardly noticed anyone else tonight.”

I raise an eyebrow and say, “Not really,” before drawing the straw into my mouth.

Lorcan chuckles, and the deep, full-bodied sound is one I’d expect to hear from someone much older than eighteen. He’s always been excellent at reading people, even back when I used to babysit him and his brother while our parents did business.

“Whatever you think you know”—I give him a sly smile—“you don’t know.”

His chuckle turns into a full-on laugh, and his sandy-colored hair falls into his hazel eyes. “I think you two have been fucking for years.”

With a grin, I take a long sip of my liquor and then look at Lorcan under my lashes. I wrinkle my nose. “We were a bit obvious?”

If that’s the case, I’m glad we’ve limited our interactions around my parents or his father. None of them would understand. Most of the time, I don’t even comprehend our connection.

“Only if you know my deartháir mor like I do.”

Not long ago, there would have been a hint of humor in his comment. A shift occurred between Lorcan and Finn when Lorcan’s mother died. For some reason, their relationship never shifted back. I want to ask, but I’m not sure I need to. Finn can be a total jackass, and I suspect whatever has happened between the two of them, he started the trouble.

Lorcan takes my empty glass. “Another?” Peanut shells crack under his feet when he slides closer to the old wooden bar.

When I glance up, Finn’s eyes are still on me even as he chats with a university buddy. Sometimes I think I mean something to him, like now, when he’s staring at me so intently I could melt in a puddle on the floor. As soon as he breaks eye contact and focuses elsewhere, the surety passes. We’re not much more than friends with benefits. If I’m being honest, that uncertainty is a piece of the allure. No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure him out, and it’s been three years of this on-and-off pattern I thought we were keeping a secret.

Lorcan gives me another drink. Absentmindedly, I smooth a few blond strands that have popped out of my intricate braid. Later tonight, Finn will pull the braid apart with gentle fingers. A shiver races along my spine at the memory of his hands, soothing and persistent in my hair. That’s also an aspect of the attraction. The tenderness he shows me, coupled with his rough edges, is addictive. I’m valued and disposable.

“You trying to get Carys fucking drunk?” Finn’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

How did I miss him weaving toward me? He ruffles his platinum-blond hair, which often signals annoyance or frustration.

“You like me drunk.” I draw the straw between my lips, the fruity liquid lingering in my throat. “Don’t you?”

One side of his mouth quirks up, and his gaze roams over me. “I like you all kinds of ways.”

Warmth floods me, from him, from the fog of alcohol. I want to loop my arms around his neck and press myself to him as tight as I can. There’s never enough with him. In my head, I’m begging for more. But I don’t move. We’re not into public displays of affection. My choice. Not his.

Lorcan stiffens beside Finn, and I half turn, prepared to make a joke in case he’s annoyed with our flirting. But Lorcan is focused on the entrance to the bar. Truthfully this place is more of a pub, with dim lighting and old wood everywhere. The stench of polish, peanuts, and spilled beer hangs in the large open area. There’s nothing special about this Irish pub, but it’s within walking distance to Lorcan’s first-year student accommodation and near to Finn’s university flat. The reminder of his apartment and what we’ll be doing in just a few hours is enough to kick my pulse up a notch. I can’t wait to get him alone.

“McCaffery’s people,” Lorcan mutters.

“Bunch of jackasses.” Finn grimaces. “Always looking for a fucking fight.”

I rest my free hand on his bicep, and I cock my head toward the door. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Nah, they’re not chasing me away.” He squeezes around me to order another beer. “They want a fight? They can take their best shot.”

While he waits for his drink, a tall, curvy redhead slips past me and brushes his shoulder. Lorcan has wandered elsewhere, probably thinking he’s doing us a favor. I stand behind Finn and nurse my alcohol, and I restrain myself from latching onto the redhead’s hair and giving it a yank. That wouldn’t be fair. He can do what he likes. We aren’t together. Not really. Moments like these make me queasy. I can’t imagine being with anyone other than him, and yet I can’t picture us going beyond a casual affair. He’s not the guy a girl marries. He’s the one she fucks in the back alley. And while the sex might be amazing—might even be the best she’s ever had—there’s never any promise of a future.

The redhead pushes her chest onto the wooden ledge and leans her face toward him. Are they going to kiss with me standing here? She gives him a flirty glance and says something too low for me to hear. He shuffles away from her and checks over his shoulder, his gaze unreadable.

Half turning, he tosses money on the counter and tilts his beer at me while addressing the woman beside him. “You see her?”

She gives him pouty lips and then an uneasy smile, but she turns to follow the slant of his glass.

“She’s the only woman in this bar I’m interested in. No, I’m not buying you a drink, and you can keep your wandering hands off my dick.”

She flings her hair over her shoulder and storms away.

I hadn’t noticed the wandering hand, focused on her heaving breasts, her lips too close. The maneuver should have occurred to me because it’s one I’ve used.

Before I can say anything, an Irish-accented voice calls out, “Finn Donaghey.”

Finn’s expression morphs from amusement to annoyance. “I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight, Patty.”

He draws me closer so we’re side by side. His almost six-foot solid frame of muscle makes me feel tiny at just over five feet.

Lorcan, who had been chatting with his own friends, reappears at Finn’s side. There might be weird tension between the brothers, but they still stick together against anyone who threatens them or their family.

“Come on, Finnie. Agree ta one fight,” Patty says.

Finn rolls his shoulders and chugs his beer before setting his glass down. “I don’t do that shit anymore. I told you that.”

“Afraid of yer old man? He doesn’t need to be told.”

Tension thickens the air. Patty is surrounded by three burly men. Lorcan glances behind him, and other guys appear. The rest of the crowd is taking notice. Finn never backs down from a challenge, but his time in Boston fighting at The Cage angered his father more than usual. I never understood why.

“My father doesn’t call the shots.” Finn grits out the words, his fists clenching.

That dig is a thorn in his side, but there is another insult guaranteed to set him off. I’m torn between staying close and seeking shelter. When he lets fly, sometimes people get hurt in the crossfire.

“Come fight for us.” Patty removes his wallet from his front pocket and extracts a few bills. “I’ll give you a fair cut.”

“I don’t need your money. We’ve been over this. The Donagheys aren’t fucking broke.” Finn steps toward him.

Lorcan and the men with him follow.

“And I’d have to be very poor or very stupid to get mixed up in your Mickey Mouse, bush-league bullshit ring,” Finn says.

My heart knocks against my chest.

“I got your fighting name picked out, Finnie. Banners made. Endorsements set up.” Patty’s dark eyes are alight with amusement tinged with a touch of meanness.

I cringe and slide my drink beside Finn’s empty glass. What’s coming won’t be pretty. They must know about the name. The one thing Finn won’t tolerate is the stupid nickname. Well, that and anyone but him screwing over Lorcan.

“Don’t fucking go there.” His tone is almost feral, a clear warning.

“Who doesn’t love the friendly ghost?” Patty smirks at the men behind him. “Casp—”

Finn slams his fist into Patty’s face, and the bar comes alive with shouts as the two men exchange blows while Lorcan and the guys behind him weigh into the fray. I stay by the bar at first, watching them pummel each other. When Finn gets Patty on the ground, a bud of unease sprouts in my stomach. Finn pounds on him, and blood flies everywhere. Patty’s face is swelling. Is anyone going to stop him? If Finn kills him in the presence of these witnesses and I did nothing to stop him, I’ll never forgive myself. I’d never let him go to jail.

After circling the other fights and dodging fists, I yank on Finn’s shoulder to get his attention. He shrugs me off, but when I call his name over the chaos of yelling and furniture scraping, his shoulders relax. Without looking at me, he climbs off Patty. Then one of Patty’s men charges forward out of the fray, and Finn’s back is turned, defenseless. He doesn’t see him coming. I step in front, shielding him. At the last moment, the glint of the knife registers. A burning, aching pain rips through my chest, and I stumble, knocking into Finn, whose steady hands cradle me from behind.

“Carys, what the—” His ice-blue eyes meet mine in confusion, and then he looks down, understanding registering. “Oh, fuck.” His gaze darts around the room. “Lorcan! Lorcan! I need you to call 999.” Lowering me to the ground, he says, “Keep focused on me. Help’s coming.”

The burning has ceased, but numbness and disorientation seep in.

Lorcan appears overhead. “They’re on their way.” He homes in on my chest. “Holy fuck.”

Finn glares at his brother, and then he smooths the stray strands of my hair. My eyelids are so heavy as I stare up. I crave sleep, to give into the heaviness. My hand strays to whatever is protruding out of my body. If I could take it out, the sting would go away.

Before I can grasp the knife, Finn wraps his hand around mine.

“Don’t touch it. Leave it be. It’s—Jesus—just don’t.” He half turns toward Lorcan. “Which motherfucker did this?”

Lorcan shakes his head. The bar has quieted down, eerily quiet. “They’re gone. Ran off.”

“Doesn’t matter. They all had a part in it.” Finn squeezes my hand. “Every one of them.”

“Finn,” I wheeze out.

Speaking is a strain. My body is a raging fire and an ice bath. I shiver and sweat, shiver and sweat.

“Help’s coming.” He grazes my forehead with his thumb, and my eyelids flutter. “What’s taking them so fucking long?”

The front door slams open, and the squeak of the stretcher’s wheels draw my attention. Two paramedics loom over me, exchanging phrases in rapid-fire accented English. My heart. Something is wrong with my heart. Finn is just above their shoulder, staring at me with thinly veiled panic and far too much rage. I will him to come with me because I don’t understand what’s happening. The words won’t leave me. My body isn’t my own.

When I’m lifted onto the stretcher, I try to reach out to him, but my arm is too heavy, weighted. Lorcan stares at his brother and then follows me and the paramedics out into the cool night air. As the doors on the ambulance click closed, the last face I see isn’t Finn’s, it’s Lorcan’s.

The sirens blare as we race to the hospital. Finn didn’t even follow me to the ambulance. He’s not coming. Why isn’t he coming? My chest aches, broken by a knife or by Finn’s inattention.

After the surgery, after explaining everything to my parents, who flew in from Chicago, after talking to the police, after waiting days for him to appear, I realize something.

I’m not valued. I’m just disposable.