Page 49 of Irish Reign

When it’s just the three of us—Trap, Russo, and me—my boss gestures toward the door, toward the lobby and freedom. “I’ll just show you out?—”

“Giovanna can do that,” Russo says.

Trap gives no sign of being confused by the unfamiliar name. “If you’d like to visit your private gallery, I can have security?—”

“That is not necessary,” Russo says.

Trap looks directly at me. “Sam?”

That one syllable is my ticket out. I can escape this room. Or I can ask Trap to stay. Ask him to send in Liam. Ask, beg, plead not to be left alone with the demon who wants to possess me.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“Close the door as you leave,” Russo says, as if he’s dismissing some kid selling rip-off magazine subscriptions.

Trap bristles. “Sam?” he asks again.

I force myself to nod. “You can close the door.”

He doesn’t want to. But he trusts me. He leaves.

Russo barely waits for the door to latch before he stalks around the table. I don’t move quickly enough, and he backs me into my chair.

Heat radiates off his body, singeing the space between us. I catch my breath too sharply, and my lungs are filled with the stink of lemon-soaked lumber, his Acqua di Parma cologne.

“You got me to your freeport,cara. To your fancy Diamond Ring. Now you must convince me to stay.”

This is where I tell him Braiden’s secret. This is where I share the truth about Krakower, about all the ways Russo can extort his way to millions. I must convince Russo that I’ve truly abandoned Braiden, that I’ve returned to the fold of my childhood. If I don’t, the past three hours mean nothing.

But Russo expects me to satisfy him another way. He shifts his weight forward, rocking onto the balls of his feet. The motion brings his belt buckle level with my throat. Even as I swallow, I can make out the bulge of his erection behind his zipper. I try to look away, but his fingers close around my jaw.

“I can’t,” I tell him. “Not here. Not where I work.”

“My sweet Giovanna,” he says tightening his grip. “You can. And you will.”

He has to think he’s beaten me, but I won’t let him see me cry. I push some of my desperation into a single word: “Please…”

An ugly light kindles deep inside his flat, dark eyes. “Please, what?” he asks.

I know how to beg. Braiden taught me. But with Braiden, I always have a safeword. I can always escape.

Russo has no limits.

“Please don’t make me do this.” And then, as if a brilliant idea has come to me for the very first time: “I can give you something else. Something better.”

He moves faster than my eyes can follow, shifting his grip to the back of my neck. Bending me over the table like I’m a plastic doll, he plants a paralyzing elbow in the small of my back. “Your tight littlefiga? That would be better.”

For the past six months, I’ve wondered how I can kneel, how I can beg, how I can submit to Braiden’s commands. I’ve been shamed by the longing he ignites in me. I’ve been embarrassed by the needy heat he kindles between my legs, by the slick dampness of my panties every time I think about giving him control. I’ve questioned how I’ve turned into a creature who lives to be dominated.

But Russo’s taking the upper hand turns me to ice.

I don’t crave being mastered.

I craveBraiden.

“Please,” I beg. “If you let me go, I’ll tell you one of Braiden’s secrets.”

Russo freezes, his belt buckle half undone. “What kind of secret?” His breath stinks of stale coffee.

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