Page 12 of Bloody Knuckles

After he leaves, I sink to the floor, touching my bruised lips. The pendant at my throat now feels like a collar, binding me to Cormac.

Tonight changed nothing and everything. My captivity continues, but the prison walls have closed in more. The most dangerous cage isn't this penthouse, but the unwanted desire Cormac ignited within me—a fire that threatens to consume everything I believed about myself.

My thighs press together, seeking relief from the ache he created. I despise my weakness, my body's betrayal. Worse still, I know with terrible certainty that when he touches me again—and he will—I might not have the strength to stop him. Or to stop myself.

CHAPTER5

CORMAC

LOYALTY'S CHAINS

Islam the door of my private quarters, whiskey in hand, the taste of Aoife Gallagher still on my tongue. Her fire burns through my veins hours after I left her in that penthouse. The way she fought me. The way she melted.

Fuck.

This wasn't part of the plan. Taking her was business—leverage against Patrick, punishment for Liam's theft. Not... this. Not the hunger clawing at my insides.

I drain the glass, welcoming the burn. The clock reads 3:47 AM. Sleep seems impossible with her phantom presence haunting me. The softness of her skin. The sound she made when my teeth grazed her neck. The way her body betrayed her hatred.

"Get it together," I mutter, pouring another drink.

My phone buzzes. Declan.

All quiet at the penthouse. She tried the balcony door twice more. Security holding.

Smart girl. Persistent. I admire her refusal to surrender, even as it complicates matters.

I type:

Double the night guard. She's resourceful.

The Bentley brought me back to Donovan Manor rather than my Dublin apartment. Distance from Aoife seemed necessary after the alley incident. Another minute pressed against her, and I might have taken her against that brick wall. The thought sends blood rushing south again.

I unbutton my shirt, tossing it aside. The mirror catches my attention—scars crisscrossing my torso—souvenirs from my father's lessons in discipline. Twenty years of training to become what the Donovan name demands: ruthless, cold, untouchable.

Weakness gets you killed in this business.

And Aoife Gallagher is rapidly becoming a weakness.

I stretch across my bed, focusing on nothing. Tomorrow, Patrick Gallagher receives my demands: territory along the northern docks, compensation for the stolen shipment, and public acknowledgment of Donovan supremacy over the Temple Bar district.

Fair exchange for his daughter's safe return.

If he refuses...

My mind wanders to alternatives. Keeping Aoife indefinitely. Making her mine in every way. Breaking down that defiance until she begs for my touch.

My cock hardens at the thought. I press my palm against it, remembering how she felt against me. So responsive despite her hatred. So perfectly matched to my darkness.

Sleep claims me between one thought and the next, whiskey and desire pulling me under.

* * *

The study dooropens without warning. I straighten immediately, fifteen years old and already conditioned to fear the sound of those footsteps.

"You embarrassed me tonight." My father's voice carries no emotion—the calm before violence. He locks the door behind him.

"I didn't mean to, sir." My words emerge steady despite the cold dread spreading through me.

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