Page 8 of Irish Reign

I don’t want to know. But I don’t have that luxury, not anymore. Not with my career hanging in the balance.

So I page through the other papers, reporting to Braiden as I go.The Washington Posttreats me like an entertainment piece; the article in its Style section notes my preference for Balenciaga suits and Louboutin shoes.The JournalandThe Timespick up the business angle, mentioning my employer, Diamond Freeport. They note Braiden’s Kelly Construction, detailing some of the major contracts he’s had in the past few years.

“The Irish Timesis silent,” I tell Braiden. “For now. Satisfied?”

His eyebrows rise above the frames of his sunglasses. He’s still recovering from physical injuries and emotional exhaustion. But that doesn’t erase the fact that he’s my Dom, and he expects me to treat him with respect.

Before he can make that point, my phone rings. It’s yet another new cell—my third in as many months—sent overnight from the freeport. Life with Braiden is rough on my electronics.

When I see the caller’s name, I answer quickly. “Sonja,” I say, trying not to feel like a little girl called before the principal at school.

Sonja Heller is the attorney representing me in my Delaware ethics hearing, the one that will decide whether I get to keep practicing law. She looks like Taylor Swift and she sounds like Judge Judy. She’s as tough as tungsten, and junkyard dogs flee in terror when she walks past their chain-link fences.

“What the actual fuck,” Sonja says, in a voice loud enough for Braiden to hear, even though she’s not on speaker.

I remember that I’m a lawyer too. “I didn’t ask for that sort of coverage.”

“Lie low, I told you. Keep your name out of the press. Don’t feed the goddamn publicity machine.”

“Do you think Iwantedmy home burned to the ground?”

Only two days ago, I was hiding out in a string of Dover hotels, avoiding that so-called home because I couldn’t face thethings Braiden and I had said to each other. But I don’t have to explain my change of heart to Sonja.

She wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t have a heart of her own. Proof in point: She says, “Ithinkyou should have called me, the instant you got someplace safe.”

“I had a few other things on my mind. Do I need to repeat? Myhomeburned to the ground. People I love were injured.”

“Which only makes me wonder how you feel about the people who died.”

“That isn’t what I?—”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you that the Delaware bar is deciding whether you committed a crime of moral turpitude on that mountaintop, eleven years ago. They want to know if your drunken killing of three people makes you unfit to practice law. The last thing they need to read on the front page of the Philadelphia paper is your connection to two more corpses.”

Three.

Madden was in that house.

And he was tortured before he died.

But I tell Sonja, “If you have a way to keep reporters from publishing their stories, I’m all ears. But if you’re only calling to give me a hard time about circumstances that were absolutely, completely, one hundred percent beyond my control, then I’ll hang up, and we can both go back to getting work done for the day.”

She softens a little. “I’m your lawyer. You should have called me.”

I concede the point. “I was going to. After I got to the freeport today.”

“We need to make an official statement. I’ll clear an hour this morning. Can you be here by eleven?”

“Eleven,” I agree.

“How is Braiden?” she asks, extending the olive branch just a little farther.

“He’ll be fine.” I wait just a beat, then add, “Thank you for asking.”

“I’ll see you at eleven.”

When I hang up, Braiden says in a conversational tone, “Over my dead body.”

“What?”

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