Page 26

TWENTY-SIX

MOIRA

The air outside is sharp and cool, a slap to the face after the suffocating warmth of the gala. Waitstaff hustles in and out of a catering van with food on trays. But back behind the van and off to the side?—

There she is.

Mads . Hard to tell from this distance, except for the cigarette’s curling smoke. She’s arguing with some guy holding a camera, his flash bulb popping like a strobe light from hell.

That pisses her off even more because she starts really yelling then and reaching for the camera.

Domhnall spots her. I know because his entire body goes rigid beside me like someone jammed a steel rod straight through his spine. He doesn’t say anything. He just moves. Fast.

“Domhnall,” I snap, but he’s already halfway across the lot.

Bane and I follow, my high heels clicking against the pavement in a frantic staccato to match my racing heart.

Because I know that look in Domhnall’s eyes. It’s the same one he used to get right before he’d break some other boy’s nose when they insulted me or Mam back in Donegal.

The photographer keeps clicking away despite Mads screaming at him, oblivious to the furious Irish brawler approaching in an expensive suit.

Domhnall grabs the guy by the front of his shirt, yanking him so hard the camera dangles from his neck.

“Delete it,” Domhnall growls, low and dark, his accent slipping through the cracks of his polished facade.

“Hey!” I shout, sprinting the last few steps. Suddenly I’ve been transported back a decade and a half, back to break up another one of Donny’s fights.

Domhnall ignores me, shaking the guy once for good measure.

“Domhnall!” I snap again, stepping between them. Which is probably not the smartest move, considering my brother’s got all the chill of a rabid dog right now. “He’s just a cockroach with a camera. Let him go.”

Mads watches, her expression distant, like she’s not fully there. Great. Just what we need.

“He took photos,” Domhnall bites out.

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s what photographers do.”

The paparazzo tries to wriggle free. Bad idea.

Domhnall shoves him against a car, the impact loud enough to make me wince. People are starting to notice now. Phones come out. Flashes ignite.

Bane steps in then, his arm coming around my waist, lifting me back gently but firmly. His eyes lock with Domhnall’s, and oh boy, here we go. The testosterone showdown.

“Let him go,” Bane says to Domhn, calm but with an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

Domhnall hesitates, just for a second.

He drops the guy like trash but scoops his camera off the ground. He yanks the mini-SD card out of it, then tosses the camera back to the photographer. The photographer stumbles, catches it, then grins. He just pulls out his phone and starts snapping pics again.

“This is gold,” he mutters, grinning. “Callaghan family drama. Love it.”

Domhnall lunges, but Bane moves faster, stepping in front of him with a quiet authority that makes even my hot-headed brother pause.

“Not worth it,” Bane says.

Domhnall glares. At Bane. At me. At the world.

And that’s when the real circus arrives. More paparazzi flood the back parking lot like vultures smelling blood. Flashes explode around us, blinding and relentless.

Domhnall tries to shield Mads, who finally snaps out of her trance. She flinches at the lights and throws her arms over her head.

Bane pulls me closer, his body a solid wall between me and the chaos. But it’s too late. I hear the shutter click. A perfect shot:

Domhnall, furious, his hand still clenched into a fist.

Mads, fragile and wide-eyed.

Me, mid-yell, hair wild, expression wilder.

And Bane, towering behind me, protective and dark, his hand firm on my waist.

One photo.

A thousand stories will be splashed all over the internet tomorrow about tech billionaire Domhnall’s lunatic fiancé and sex-addict sister.