Page 52 of Irish Reign

When neither of us responds, he says in a louder voice, “Do either of you have any fucking questions?”

“No,” I say, feeling like I’ve been whacked on the palms with a ruler.

“Not one,” Russo says, his eyes narrowed and his lips tight.

“Good,” Prince says. “Now get the fuck out of here, Kelly. And Russo, I was just coming down to see if you’d like a tour of the garage and the racetrack.”

I stride out of the room before Russo can accept his feckin’ engraved invitation.

I could find my way to Samantha’s office wearing a blindfold. Liam stands as I approach, stepping forward like he’s about togive a report. As I slam my hand down on the knob to the office door, Samantha’s assistant calls out: “Excuse me! She’s on the phone!”

I compromise, closing the door behind me softly, instead of slamming it. Icanbe reasonable.

Samantha takes one look at my face and says, “Alix, I’ll call you back.” She cradles the phone as I close the distance between us.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to strategize. I don’t want to think about the ugly purple marks on her neck.

“Did he hurt you?” The question burns my lips like paint thinner.

“No,” she lies, and I hate myself because Iknowshe’s lying, and I know why she’s lying, and I have to admit that I’d lie too, if it was me answering the question.

“Did you tell him about Krakower?”

She nods like she’s afraid of me, like I might make her pay for what I once gave freely.

“And what else?” I demand. “What else did you give him?”

“Nothing,” she says.

This is my one true wife, paperwork and priests aside. This is the woman I love. I need to protect her. I’ll shelter her with my body, with my bones, even if it costs me every penny I’ve ever invested in the freeport.

So I have to test. “Russo says?—”

“Russo lies.”

“He—”

She cuts me off with her lips on mine.

I pull away, because my body still thrums with all the adrenaline I need to kill a man. “He says,” I get out, but this time her tongue tangles with mine.

My cock is ready to be done talking. My bollocks ache. But Samantha doesn’t make the rules between us. She doesn’t get to decide when we’re through talking.

I hold her fast, my arms tight around her biceps. “Russo says you gave him dirt on the Fishtown Boys.”

“I didn’t. I promise. I swear.”

I believe her, but I still want to kill someone. I settle for swiping my hand across her desk, sending documents flying. Pens and paper clips hit the floor, and a computer keyboard clatters after. Samantha’s spluttering for words when I force her to lean over the edge of the desk.

“Braiden, no, you can’t?—”

But she’s wrong. I can. I can shove my hand beneath her and tear open the button at her waist. I can force her zipper down and slide her trousers over her rounded arse.

And even as she protests, mypiscínraises her hips for me. She braces her arms for me. She waits for me to take her, so hot and ready I can smell the honey between her thighs.

I lower my own zip and free my raging cock. “I can,” I tell her, sinking deep enough and hard enough and fast enough that she groans. “You’re my wife,” I say, setting a punishing pace. “Say it.”

“I’m your wife,” she whispers.

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