Page 11 of The Irish Redemption

It becomes a debate between whether it would be scarier to run into Cormac in the hallway while looking for the bathroom or to face him after I have an accident in this bedroom. A bedroom that, at a glance,holds more expensive-looking furniture than I’ve ever seen in my life.

Soiling this room definitely wins out as the scarier option, so with my heart in my throat, I move on my tiptoes and sneak out of the room.

The place is quiet. As I hold my breath in the dark hallway, not a single sound reaches me. No voices, no clinking of dishes or signs of life. Everything is dark and quiet. They wouldn’t leave me here alone, would they?

Maybe this entire thing is just one long, bad dream.

It takes me a few long minutes to find the bathroom by peeking into doorways, but eventually, I locate the facilities and relieve myself with a groan of relief. Washing my hands, I try not to look at myself in the mirror. What makeup does remain on my face is smudged and messy, barely covering my blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes. Caring about what I look like hardly feels important right now, but having to go through all of this in the terrible maid’s outfit from the motel just makes the entire past day feel like some horrid joke.

I splash water on my face, then cup some in my palm and drink a few sips. I have no appetite, but the growing ache in my skull is definitely from dehydration. Or Cormac’s hand in my hair or the earlier blow to the head.

I can’t decide.

Heading back to bed seems like the best choice. I’d rather sleep until someone comes to get me, but on the way back to where I think the bedroom was, I spot a light coming out from underneath one of the closed doors.

I should leave it alone. Every part of my body screams at me to leave it alone and go back to bed, but since I haven’t seen a soul since I woke up, curiosity wins out.

The door opens silently, and I peer around to see what’s inside.

It’s a lounge filled with plush leather sofas and chairs, a wooden wall cabinet filled with alcohol bottles, and floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the door, through which streams of early morning light pour. Seeing a pink morning sky is beautiful, and I watch it for a few long seconds. Just as I’m about to leave, a soft thump catches my attention as a glass half full of amber falls into view on the other side of one of the chairs.

The glass teeters on its edge, and my heart jumps, watching it fall over. I dart inside the room without a second thought and snatch up the glass before too much of the alcohol spills onto the rug, but even a few droplets are enough to ruin the pure cream pattern on the rug. I should clean it. I want to clean it because it will bring me peace of mind, but I can’t move.

Cormac is asleep in the chair. The glass must have fallen from his relaxed fingertips, and for the first time, I can look at him—really look at him.

He sleeps soundly with his auburn brows pulled low in a scowl, even in slumber. Thick copper-red hair sits quaffed on his head, and a dark five o’clock shadow hugs his wide, chiseled jaw. He’s topless, exposing a broad muscular chest covered in a dusting of red hair and more thick scars than I care to count. There’s a cluster of triangles tattooed onto his thick neck, and his left arm is wrapped in a colorful tattoo sleeve filled with flowers and birds.

He’s incredibly handsome when he’s not brandishing a gun and threatening my life.

Each slow breath makes his impressive muscles shift and rise, creating a ripple across his torso which draws my eyes down to his tight abs and the soft start of a snail trail that disappears into the waistband of his belted slacks.

Did he lose his shirt in another spilled alcohol incident?

The longer I stare, the harder it is to move, but eventually, I kick myself into gear and set the glass aside on a coaster resting on the glass coffee table. With limited access to any cleaning supplies, the best I can do is a small bottle of white vinegar that I find on the bottom shelf of the drinks cabinet. It will help only a little, but it will have to do.

I hurry back to the stain, but as I crouch down next to Cormac’s sleeping form, my hair falls forward and brushes over his empty fingers. Every nerve in my body pulses in fright as his hand twitches, but he doesn’t wake. I breathe out a slow sigh of relief and uncap the vinegar.

Cormac is on his feet in an instant with his hand around my throat, hauling me upward with a growl. The vinegar bottle slips away from my grasp as my hands shoot to clutch at his thick arm, and for a searingly terrifying second, I’m held aloft, staring into stormy blue eyes. In the same second, Cormac appears to realize what he is doing and he immediately releases me.

“Shit,” he croaks gruffly. “Sorry.”

I cough sharply, clutching at my throat as he steps away. My heart hammers and fear pours through me like acid in my veins, but then Cormac places his warm hand on my shoulder and the burn suddenly fades.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “Didn’t expect you to be there.”

“Do you always go for the throat?” I ask, my voice tight.

Cormac snorts as if he finds humor in my words. “Maybe. What are you doing?”

I suddenly remember the vinegar and dart down to grab the bottle, but it’s too late. The vinegar has poured out and soaked into the rug, filling the air with its sharp scent.

“I was looking for the bathroom and then I came in here and saw the glass fall. I was just trying to stop it from staining. I’m so sorry, it was an accident!” Will he kill me for ruining the rug? For spilling the vinegar? This man scares me, and I tense up, ready for anger or the gun or anything.

Instead, there’s nothing. When I glance up, Cormac waves one hand at me and turns away toward the drinking cabinet.

“It’s fine. It’s just a rug. Doesn’t fucking matter.” As he grabs a glass, he throws a glance over his shoulder. “Your life is on the line and you cared about my rug?”

I clutch the vinegar bottle to my chest. “I like to clean. It soothes me. When everything inside is a mess, it helps to clean the outside, y’know?”

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