Page 31 of Irish Reign

“You can’t sound rehearsed.”

“I won’t.”

“This would be so much easier, if you’d just give me one hour to talk to the girl.”

“No.”

Sonja sighs. “I hope this doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass.”

“I hope it doesn’t either.”

This time, I’m not angry when I end the call. I’m exhausted. I already know what Sonja hasn’t precisely put into words.

I’m going to lose my ethics case. I’m going to lose my license. I’m never going to practice law again.

But I won’t destroy Aiofe as I circle the drain.

13

BRAIDEN

After Russo’s little game at St. Columba’s, my first instinct is to lock Samantha and Aiofe in the Rittenhouse and keep them from the light of day until Aiofe’s old enough to drink.

But Samantha convinces me I’m wrong.

She doesn’t try to use her collar. Instead, she uses years of legal training.

The Rittenhouse is a public business. It can bar access to anyone it chooses, but I—as a guest—can’t force them to keep Russo outside. Even if I bribe the doorman and the front desk clerk and the concierge, they’re under no binding obligation to me. They might take more money from Russo, giving him access to the lobby. To the public corridors. To Samantha.

So I settle on a new house without delay. It’s in Ardmore, not far from Thornfield’s remains. It’s got five bedrooms, four baths, and it sits at the end of a cul de sac. Some architect I’ve never heard of built it on spec, layering in so-called biophilicdesigns, smart technology, and a hundred shades of beige. He’s been using the place as a showcase, trying to impress future clients, so it’s already filled with furniture, dishes, and enough stark, modern furnishings I almost wish my corneas were seared again.

All I need to do is overpay by a hundred thousand to get the closing done in forty-eight hours. I drag Sawyer Best’s guy up from D.C. to overhaul the security. Some of what he recommends will take time, but getting bullet-proof glass in the windows is an easy, if expensive, fix. I hire extra security from Sawgrass to police the grounds until satisfactory fences can be built.

Wolf comes up the Saturday after the title transfers. He reworks the security system, taking out some backdoor access to the code. While he’s at it, he looks at the firewall I’m running for all the computers on-site. In the end, it’s easier to trash my whole system and go with what he uses at his own home.

Samantha is happy—she’s out of the Rittenhouse for good.

Aiofe is happy—she’s got a room overlooking the garden, complete with a pink canopy over her bed.

Fairfax is happy—he’s got a bigger, newer kitchen than the one he had at Thornfield.

And I suppose I’m happy too. Almost ten million dollars poorer, but I’ve kept my promises to the woman I love. I’ll figure out some way to make the books balance. I always do.

I’m still not putting Samantha back in her collar. I’m her Dom. I have more control than she does. But it’s more and more difficult to ignore that emerald necklace—especially now that I have a bed with a cast iron headboard, perfect for securing cuffs. And a matching footboard, ideal for tying my sub spread-eagle. And a dresser drawer that I’ve already begun to fill with all the tools I need…

No.

Not yet.

But soon my own right hand won’t be enough. And God save Samantha Kelly when I put her on her knees.

Of course the house isn’t enough.

I’ve been played like an Irish fiddle—this time, by Fairfax. He’s the one who found the Ardmore house. He walked me through the property, pointing out how it meets every one of our needs.

But he waited until after we moved in to show me the church, one block west of our new home: St. Agnes. By sheer coincidence—some might call it by brutal manipulation—St. Agnes runs a school, kindergarten through eighth grade. And for a generous donation to their building fund, they can find an opening in their summer school program for rising fifth graders.

I dig in, even though I know I can’t win when Fairfax, Samantha, and Aiofe all join forces.

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