Page 6 of Yours

Kicking off my jeans and removing the rest of my clothes, I padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower, cranking it to the hottest setting I could stand. Steam curled up around me as I stepped inside, letting the water hammer against my skin. It was supposed to clear my head, to wash away the heat pooling low in my stomach. But instead, it only made it worse. Every drop felt like a reminder of the fire I was trying to drown.

I braced my hands against the tile, hanging my head under the spray.

“Get it together,” I muttered to myself. “It’s Ronan. You don’t even like him.”

But even as I said it, my mind betrayed me, conjuring the image of his hand brushing against mine that one time at the barbecue. It hadn’t been much—a light touch, fleeting even—but the fiery sensation it had left behind had lingered long after he’d walked away.

My nipples hardened under the constant spray of the shower and my thighs tensed. I didn’t need to reach between my legs to feel if I was wet.

I just knew.

That didn’t stop me from doing it anyway. I flinched when my fingertips glided over my wet folds, and I closed my eyes, the water beating down on my heated skin. With a hard swallow, I grazed over my clit and circled myself lightly enough to send a frisson of pleasure piercing straight through to my core. I gasped as I imagined his hand brushing against me again, only this time it was his fingers instead of mine.

I sucked in a breath, touching myself a bit more firmly now.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I shouldn’t be touching myself thinking about my best friend’s older brother, not when he was the kind of man that he was.

I should be ashamed of myself.

I cursed under my breath and turned off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around me as I practically fledfrom the bathroom. Back in my room, I flopped onto the bed, letting the cool air dry my damp skin. I felt calmer now, though my pulse still thrummed annoyingly hard in my veins.

That all paled in comparison to the way my clit was still throbbing between my legs.

You don’t have to call him tonight, I told myself.You can wait. Sleep on it. Think of a better plan.

I was just reaching for my bedside lamp when the power cut out.

The apartment plunged into darkness, and my heart sank into my stomach. A soft hum of dread vibrated in my chest as I stared into the inky black.

My throat tightened. My mind raced with every horror story Leena had ever told me about Benedetti and guys like him. And just like that, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.

With a shaky breath, I grabbed my phone and unlocked it. Ronan’s name stared back at me from the screen.

I swallowed hard, said a prayer, and pressedCall.

CHAPTER 4

Ronan O’Malley

There’s a certain kind of silence that only exists in a basement like this one.

The hum of the single flickering lightbulb above. The faint drip of water from some unseen pipe in the corner. The wheezing breath of the man tied to the chair, his own blood pooling at his feet.

I leaned back against the wall, arms folded across my chest, my eyes fixed on the man in front of me.

His name was Mickey Donnelly. A face I’d known since I was a kid, back when he was just one of my father’s loyal soldiers. He’d been at my first communion, sitting two tables over, drinking whiskey and laughing too loud. And now he was sitting in front of me, wrists bound, face swollen, the smell of sweat and fear clinging to him like a second skin.

Disloyalty always has a stink to it. You can smell it before you see it.

“You disappoint me, Mickey,” I said, my voice calm and strangely even. The kind of tone that made men squirm more than shouting ever could. I stepped forward, the soles of my shoes clicking against the concrete floor. “You had a choice, didn’t you? You could’ve come to me, told me what was going on. But instead, you went behind my back to the Italians. To the fucking Benedettis, of all people.”

At the mention of their name, Mickey’s head snapped up, his bloodied mouth opening to protest. “It—it wasn’t like that, Ronan, I swear. It wasn’t like that?—”

“Then what was it like?” I asked, cutting him off. I crouched down in front of him, meeting his eyes, my voice still quiet. Controlled. “Help me understand, Mick. What part of ratting on your own to a bunch of greasy bastards who’d slit your throat for shits and giggles wasn’t betrayal?”

He flinched at the word betrayal, his lips trembling. “I didn’t have a choice!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “They—they came to me, said they’d kill my family if I didn’t?—”

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