Page 62 of Irish Reign

I hold out my hand, but he shakes his head. “I do not think so, Giovanna. You are tired, and?—”

“I’m fine.”

He goes on as if I haven’t interrupted him. “These papers are not urgent. They can wait until you are recovered.”

“I don’t need any recovery,” I say.

He clicks his tongue, like a parent correcting an overtired child. “It would be cruel of me to expect you to work, after such an experience. Next week,” he says. “When you have rested.”

I want to protest. I want to tell him he’s mistaken, that I’m fine, I’m fresh, I’m ready to provide legal advice on any document in his possession.

But I can’t afford to make him suspicious. So I incline my head and feed his ego. “You are too kind, Don Antonio.”

His crocodile smile says he knows I think otherwise.

I have no other option—I let Liam help me from the room. He takes me directly to the Bentley but when he opens the back door, I say, “Please. I’ll sit up front.”

He clearly considers protesting, but in the end he opens the front door. He turns on the heater before we reach the highway, even though it’s July. That’s the only thing that makes me realize I’m shivering. The sun sets as he drives me home, and neither of us says a single word for the entire ride.

The paparazzi are gone when we arrive at the Ardmore house. The porch lights are on, but every window is dark. “Want me to come in with you?” Liam asks.

I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say, the same lie I used with Russo.

“It’s no problem.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, my exhaustion sounding like annoyance.

I open my own car door. I take the steps carefully, as if they’re slippery with ice. My key catches in the front door, and for just a moment, I think Braiden changed the lock, but then I find the right angle. I take a deep breath and head inside.

Braiden sits in the foyer. He’s dragged an armchair out of the dining room, placing it at the foot of the stairs. His legs are spread, like he’s anchoring the world. His hair is mussed, and I wonder how many times he’s run his fingers through it. My collar is draped over the fingers of his left hand, the emerald shining like a beacon in the light from the porch. Braiden holds a tumbler in his right hand, and the smell of whiskey slaps me like a wake-up call.

I close the door, shutting out the bright lights on the porch. Now we’re illuminated only by the soft glow that sneaks inside the windows.

“Wh—” I hate that my voice shakes. “Where is everyone?”

“I sent Aiofe and Fairfax to the Rittenhouse. So we could have some privacy.”

“And the paps?”

“I had Best send out a dozen of his best men. Told them to patrol with machine guns for a couple of hours. I guess there are easier stories to land.”

I want to laugh, but I’m too exhausted. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Why—”

“Piscín.” The word is rough on his lips. He holds out my collar, and the gem glints in the dim lights. It’s an invitation.

I take it. I cross the foyer and sit on his lap.

His arms fold around me, pulling me close to his chest. My spine unzips, releasing a weight I didn’t know I carried. All thetension, all the fear, all the pain of today boils up inside me, breaking free in a trembling sigh.

“Mo chailín maith,” he whispers against my hair. He brings the glass of whiskey to my lips. As he tilts it gently, I take a sip and the warmth thaws the still-frozen places inside me.

“I was wrong this morning,” he says. “I was worried.” I hear his heartbeat beneath his crisp white shirt. “Angry,” he says. “Jealous.”

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard Braiden admit he was wrong. His fingers shift on my hip, as if he thinks I’ll try to break away, but I don’t ever want to leave this place. I never want to lose this feeling of shelter, of absolute safety. My collar hums between his palm and my flesh.

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