Page 42 of His Dark Vendetta

“Mmm.” My chest rumbled with satisfaction. “I think you’re more than ready.” I wrapped my fingers around her ribs and pressed the pad of my thumb into her nipple, rolling it and making myself harder with each circle. I leaned in, so close my lips brushed her ear. “Yeah,” I breathed. “You’re ready for me to tongue-fuck you, aren’t you? And you hate it.”

She groaned, soft and restrained, but dug her fingernails into my skin. I chuckled and pulled back to watch her expression. Her eyes flashed with challenge, but her cheeks remained flushed, a rosy glow that matched the pale pink of her lips. Her fury was fighting a losing battle against her desire, and it made me want to dominate her even more.

Anticipation swelled between us, thick and intense. I wrapped my fingers around her breast and squeezed, serving her nipple up like a feast. I sucked it into my mouth, and she moaned, deeper this time and throaty with need. My dick jerked at the sound. Pre-cum smeared the inside of my pants. My erection begged for friction. I pressed my hips into hers, and the wetness was cold and slick against my hip. She rubbed herself against me, straining for contact, and fuck if I didn’t want to end this game, drop my pants, and fuck the fight right out of her.

Instead, I nipped and sucked, determined to give her the same mind-blowing orgasm she’d given me over a year ago at Vesuvio. I flicked her plump nub with my tongue until she writhed beneath me. She deserved that pleasure and so much more.

I released her from my mouth and blew on the wet peak. Her nipple pebbled, and her tiny blonde hairs stood on end. I grinned, so fucking satisfied, and looked up, wanting her to see the victory painted on my face.

The kitchen lights backlit her hair, creating a golden halo around her flushed face. Her blue eyes sparkled, open and yearning. Trusting. If I’d thought her beautiful before, nothing had prepared me for what she looked like in that moment—flushed, needy, and ready for my mouth. It punched me in the chest, and my smug grin disappeared. I brushed the wisps of hair from her forehead and ran my thumb along her brow. For a heartbeat, I allowed myself to stare into her eyes, to share her breath and forget everything but the charge that pulled us together.

Ready for worship, I lowered myself to my knees, never breaking our magnetic eye contact, and slid my hands down the length of her torso. I planted a kiss above her navel then dragged my gaze down the pale expanse of her skin.

Shock froze time. My heart stopped beating. Reality crashed around me as I stared in horror at Siobhán’s ravaged stomach.

The next beat of my heart slammed into my chest. Time rushed forward, and I sucked in a startled breath. My hands locked around her hips, and I surveyed the scene, trying to make sense of the carnage.

A couple inches to the right of her navel, the first gunshot scar punched a deep, circular divot into her creamy flesh. Silvery white tissue radiated out from the entry wound before fading to pink. The second was closer to her center but below her navel, the indentation almost completely obscured by a thick crosswise incision scar that spanned her midsection. A third bullet had entered on the left, another inch down, the scar deeper and more puckered. Two additional surgical incisions slashed her abdomen on diagonals, white dots and lines with dark pink outlines adding to the panoply of destruction marring her body’s otherwise flawless skin.

My breath quickened, and my eyes started to turn.

She squirmed under my attention, no doubt recognizing why I stopped, and tugged at the sides of her shirt, pulling them together around her body.

My eyes leaped to hers, and I couldn’t mask the horror and anger in them. She looked away, lips twisting with embarrassment and panic.

A frantic possessiveness roared through my blood and threatened to fully turn me. I fought it, gritting my teeth even as the tips of my fangs pinched the inside of my bottom lip. “Who did this to you?” I growled.

She squirmed, eyes focused anywhere but where I stared up at her, her dread visible in jerky motions and her struggle to cover her body.

I pinched her hips harder and fought the power in my blood. “Who did this to you, Siobhán?” I asked again, slow and demanding, every instinct in my body desperate to protect. “Who hurt you?” It didn’t matter she was a Shaughnessy. She was mine, and I would kill whoever did this to my little shamrock. Slowly and without mercy.

“It’s nothing,” she answered, robotic and dismissive. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No.” I released her hips, and she wrapped the shirt around her midsection, hugging herself to secure it closed. I rose to my feet and took her chin between my thumb and forefinger.

Siobhán, one of the most feisty, strong-willed women I’d ever met, wouldn’t meet my eyes. They darted everywhere but my face, revealing a side of her I’d never seen before, vulnerable and deeply shaken. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it any more than the quiet, defeated Siobhán from the couch.

I breathed through my nose, trying to calm the power in my blood, trying to calm her. I took her face between my hands, forcing her to look me in the eyes, and gentled my voice. “Who hurt you, Siobhán?”

Her eyes searched mine as if trying to weigh her next words based on what she found there. I kept my gaze steady, letting her know we’d entered a truce.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt by my family.” Her words and lips trembled, and the sincerity in her pained expression squeezed my heart even as my blood boiled at the significance of her answer.

I smoothed the hair off her face and tucked it behind her ears. I brushed my thumbs across her freckled cheekbones, needing to soothe myself as much as I needed to soothe her. “Tell me what happened.”

She closed her eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. “My father was a mechanic in Ireland,” she said, quiet and slow, and opened her eyes. “And here, before he met my mother. They met at a pub. Love at first sight. They married three months later. Uncle Paddy told him he could do better for his new family if he started a chop shop.”

The delicate muscles of her throat moved through a swallow. “He had nothing. He was an immigrant. I was on the way—we’re Irish Catholic, after all.” She quirked a sardonic grin. “It was a chance to make something of himself. Opportunity. That’s why you and I are here, isn’t it? Opportunity? Our parents thought they’d find it here in America.”

She looked out the French doors, and I let her, dropping my hands to her neck and running circles over her pulse with my thumbs. Her gaze grew distant, haunted.

“I used to go to the shop after school to spend time with him. Da taught me all about cars. I think he thought I could be a mechanic, too. ‘Gel, in America, you can be anything.’” She mimicked a thick Irish accent and huffed. “Maybe that’s true for normal people, but it’s not true for people like us.”

The set of her jaw hardened. “I was sixteen. I went to the shop to bring Da his lunch. I made him a lemonade and a tuna sandwich. It was hot that day.” She swallowed, and her eyes became misty. “The garage door was open. A car pulled up the street.” Her voice broke, and her lips twisted, working to hold back tears or anger or both.

The story was headed to a dark place, one that would likely enrage me and break her. I cupped her face again, forcing her back to me. Her eyes stayed downcast, and tears slid down her pale cheeks. I fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her forehead, to pull her into my arms and protect her from reliving whatever came next. But it wasn’t my place, and I wasn’t that guy. Even if a part of me wanted to be.

“It was some new gang. They just arrived from Ireland and didn’t know any better, didn’t know who ran Southie. They thought taking out a rival shop would give them an upper hand.” She lifted her eyes. “Da took one in the leg. It just grazed him.” She blinked hard, and another tear rolled down her face. “I wasn’t so lucky.”

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