Page 5 of The Enforcer's Redemption

Seeing the world moving on while I remain trapped, it's like those birds are mocking me. Time is marching onward for everyone and everything, and I'm stuck, frozen here behind these thick walls, awaiting my fate. Whether it's death, marriage, or a life on the run, there is a one hundred percent certainty thatit involves suffering of some sort. My jaded heart knows that all too well.

I turn, peeling myself away from the window, and walk to the small wooden armchair in the room near the reading desk. The old roll-top smells musky, like it was stored in a place that allowed moisture to seep into the wood and begin to rot it. And the chair's green leather cushion has seen better days. I lower myself onto the seat and stare down at a book lying on the desktop.

I've been passing my time with a little reading. Today it's Dostoyevsky'sCrime and Punishment. It fascinates me how the master weaved these words together to tell the tale of one’s descent into madness, how easily the human mind can fall. I wonder, as I fold open the worn cover and lay the book flat before me, if that's what's going on with these O'Rourke men—the O’Reillys too. Are they gone mad with the sins they're committing? Is that why they hunger and thirst for death at every turn? Why their greed and lust run out of control? Why they think controlling people—controlling me—is a good thing?

My eyes pore over the pages, licking up every last word. The story is captivating, holding my attention, keeping me poised for whatever may come next. I sit like this for hours, devouring the characters and scenes, feeling pinned to the edge of my seat, anxious to turn the page, terrified of what it's uncovering in my own heart as I compare myself to Raskolnikov. Perhaps I am the mad one, not fighting back like I could, not running for the Garda's protection…

I'm there, hunched over the desk with the light creating a halo around me, hours later when Declan comes to the door. I hear the key and the lock, but the characters seem more real than my reality. At least, I’d like them to be. Being a fly on the wallwatching a man grow less sane by the minute seems like a far better way to spend my time than locked away in a monster's home with a marriage I didn't ask for as my only exit.

"Dinner," he grunts gruffly, but I don’t look up. I hear the clatter of dishes, liquid being poured into a glass, more dishes clattering. He belches. That's what gets my attention. I glance up to see him seated at the small table in the corner of the room.

He's dressed in all black. Black jeans that stretch down to his black leather boots. Black T-shirt that stretches over his thick biceps, an inky black tattoo peeking out from the sleeve. His hair is loose, but he wears it brushed back away from his face, and his beard is perfectly trimmed, like every other time I've seen him. He's attractive. I can't help noticing. Any woman in this world would kill for the chance to bed him.

My eyes physically ache from reading, and though he's easy on them, I look away. "Not hungry," I tell him. I want to finish this chapter, find out what happens next. Raskolnikov is in his home, sweating, waiting.

"It's going cold," Declan barks. He thinks I'm the sort of woman who will jump at his command, but he doesn’t know me. They may have authority to command other people, but that authority doesn’t extend to me. So I sit and read, ignoring the clattering of dishes that crescendos the longer I sit.

The ruckus becomes so distracting, I can't focus on the words anymore. I make a mental note of what page number I'm on so I can return to reading when he's done throwing his tantrum, but I continue to turn the pages and let my eyes roll over them. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's been successful at pulling me out of my secret world of escape.

"Eventually, you'll have to talk to me," he says, and I know he's right. For now, however, I continue my ruse. This book is invigorating and he is not. Though I feel the tug on my chest, the actual fucking desire to look at him and admire his beauty.

An image forms in my mind now—not Sonya or Dunya as they minister to the man in the pages in front of me, but Declan, shirtless, stalking toward me. I've only seen him shirtless once, more than a year ago. And more by accident than anything else. I walked in on something I wasn't supposed to see when I stopped by Ronan's home the day I accepted the job of being his accountant—which I only took as a means to siphon money from their accounts. But they became suspicious, and I shifted my focus on Eamon at that point.

That day still rattles me, seeing Declan biting down on a wooden spoon while a woman sewed his back shut, some sort of injury, not a gunshot. It sliced right through the tattoo he has there—a large bird of prey, long talons, haunting eyes. He looked up at me then, devouring me as he grimaced and fought through the pain. Those same eyes are on me now. I can feel them.

"And you'll find it easier to walk down that aisle with me if you just come get to know me."

His words snap me out of my trance. Even the most exceptionally beautiful body can't hide the darkness in a man's soul. It finds a way to seep out and bubble to the surface, like air under a rock beneath the water. When something shifts it, the bubbles rise. It's there in his eyes, the way he wants to control me, the darkness, the vile thoughts.

"I'm not marrying you," I snip back at him, shutting the book and pushing it away. I am hungry, and I'm not going to starvemyself just to avoid conversing with him. I'm not giving him that power over me. He's not worthy of that much.

"You are." His statement sounds final, a command. He thinks himself a god over my life. I think he's a boy, immature and mal-informed.

"And will you open my mouth and make the words 'I do' come out?" I scoff as I sit down, taking a cloth napkin provided for me and snapping it before I drape it over my knee. The food does look delicious—steak, broccoli, and a baked potato. I didn’t realize the O'Rourke men eat American style food. I’d much prefer champ potatoes and whiskey cream sauce, but this looks appetizing too.

"I won’t have to." His eyes flick up at me as he takes another bite. Then he chews carefully as he watches me. There is a storm in them, a tempest ready to unleash its fury on an angry emerald sea. I have to look away. His gaze warms my body to a balmy temperature that has me sweating. Or maybe it's the heat on this steak.

"You're confident for a man who knows so little about women. Don't you realize I need clothing? Toiletries? A shower now and then?" The bath is there, an old claw-foot antique he's had restored to the original sheen of a polished enameled cast-iron. The gilded feet would fetch him thousands each, but to an O'Rourke, money is nothing. They probably use it to stoke fires in the winter. That's what made skimming off the top so easy for so long. They don't even miss it.

"I can arrange anything you want, Aisling. I'm not your enemy. I'm here to protect you." His edge softens, curls around me, sucking me closer, coaxing my body to warm further.

"I told you, my name is Isla." No one calls me Aisling besides my mother, not even Da. "And I told you, I don’t need your protection." My insides tremble a little as I say the words. I know I can’t fight Sebastian's men on my own.

"I prefer Aisling." His fork drops to his plate, his hand to his lap. He brings his napkin to his mouth to wipe, then discards it on the table next to his plate.

"I don't," I snip, now feeling flustered by this ogre. He's staring at me, unnerving me with his eyes again, probably undressing me. The way I was undressing him in my mind moments ago. We have chemistry. It makes my body flush. Warmth pools in my core as arousal heightens every sense.

The dynamic of power he has over me is both electrifying and suffocating. I want to lean into it and feel the exhilaration of attraction, let my heart race and my body get out of control with desire. But I also want to fight it, push back against nature and my physiological response to his nearness, and put him in his place.

"You do need my protection, though." He stands and stares down at me, making the captor-captive dynamic stronger—my pulse too. "Sebastian will kill you the first chance he gets, and he won't even make it quick. He'll likely cut your fingers off one by one, feed them to his dogs right in front of you, and then bleed you out, one drop at a time. And when he's done with you, your father will be next."

The sickening thought that my crime against that man may come back to harm my father makes my stomach roll. I'm not hungry anymore. Not even close. And the arousal that was just so gloriously warming my core cools. I shudder. I need his help because I can't fight my own battles, and I know Da can'teither. How would an old man, almost sixty, fight a criminal organization?

"Fine," I grumble, but I don't mean it. I need him to believe I mean it. I need him to make sure he's watching over my father until I can get to my cache and safely get my family away from here.

"Fine?" he asks. His fingers trail over my shoulder, brushing a few strands of my dark hair behind my back. His touch is gentle, not at all what I expect from a man like him.

"Fine, I'll marry you. But you protect my family…" The words taste bitter on my tongue. It's a total lie, and it comes so easily. After months of skimming, I've become something I'm not. Something I hate. I've become one of them.

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