Page 41 of Dublin Beast

We’re on our own now—which makes thingseasier.

But Harper is now part of this, and that makes things more complicated. Depending on what they drugged her with, the next few hours and days could be a nightmare.

I glance into the second bedroom of the suite. She’s curled up like a boiled shrimp and hasn’t moved in the past hour. I’m hoping she’s just been hit with one hell of a tranquilizer, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

Eddie Mason is scum. Odds are he hooks the girls on some shit as soon as they’re in his possession.

“Call Doc Kelvin and find out what we need to cut through the shit they pumped into her. Can Narcan help? I don’t know enough about it to stick her with something. Find out.”

Kieran nods, his attention locked on ripping a chunk of naan. “Now?”

“When you’re done your dinner.”

I settle back into my thoughts, thewhat ifsclawing at me, relentlessly.

What if we hadn’t gotten to her in time?

What if we got there ten minutes later?

What if she had been sold to the highest bidder, disappearing forever into the abyss of Mason’s twisted network?

My jaw clenches as I drag a hand down my face. But the thing that makes me just as sick—maybe even sicker—is the fact that we left other women behind.

We saw them. Chained. Drugged. Terrified.Helpless.

And we had to leave them.

I exhale hard, a decision settling deep in my bones.

Once I find Siobhan, once I settle that score, I’ll help Harper find her answers and shut this down. Eddie Mason is going to regret coming after Harper. I warned him.

And he still poked the beast.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Harper

My body is on fire.

No, not fire—ice.

A violent shiver rips through me, curling my fingers into the crisp sheets as the chill digs beneath my skin. My stomach twists, a deep, nauseating pull that sends a fresh wave of sweat across my brow.

I gasp for air, but it feels thick, heavy, like I’m suffocating under an unseen weight.

Where am I?

I blink against the dim light, my vision slow to adjust. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, the walls too clean, too impersonal. Panic clutches at my chest as the memories claw their way back—hands on me, the scent of cologne and cigars, the bite of a needle against my skin.

I was drugged. More than once.

Oh, God.

The room spins, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the rolling nausea. My limbs feel wrong—weak and trembling, like I worked out too long and too hard, and now my body is in full revolt. Every nerve in my body is raw, frayed like the edge of a torn ribbon.

A noise—low and steady—draws my attention.

A chair creaks. My breath catches in my throat as I force my head to the side. “Yer safe, lass. We got ye free of those animals.”

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