Page 33 of Bloody Knuckles

"Your uncle will challenge you," she warns.

"Declan warned you about Seamus?"

"Connor did. While you showered this morning." A smirk plays across her lips. "He worries about you."

The loyalty of my men extends further than I realized if they're briefing my captive-turned-lover about family politics. Interesting.

"Seamus believes himself the rightful heir to my father's empire," I explain. "He's been waiting twenty years for me to fail."

"And you're giving him ammunition by bringing a Gallagher to Donovan holy ground."

"I'm strengthening my position by demonstrating control over an invaluable asset."

Her eyebrow arches. "Is that what I am? An asset?"

Three days ago, I whispered that she was a wildfire I'd let consume me. The admission still burns between us, acknowledged by neither in daylight hours.

"Tonight, yes," I answer, trailing my fingers along her collarbone. "Among my family, you must be nothing more and nothing less than what I claim you to be."

"Your prisoner? Your whore?"

I grip her chin, perhaps harder than necessary. "My conquest. Remember that."

Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb—arousal, not fear. This dangerous dance between us quickens her blood as much as mine.

"And what am I when we're alone, Cormac?" she whispers.

The question hangs between us, unanswerable in this moment. Instead, I press my lips to hers, claiming her mouth with bruising force. She responds instantly, matching my intensity, nails digging into my forearm.

I break away before the kiss consumes us both. "Ready?"

Her chin lifts in that defiant gesture I've come to crave. "Born ready, Donovan."

The massive iron-bound door groans as I push it open. Conversation dies as we step into the cavernous East Wing. Thirty-plus members of the Donovan extended family, and our closest associates turn as one, shock rippling through the gathering at the sight of Aoife Gallagher on my arm.

My uncle Seamus occupies space near the makeshift bar, whiskey forgotten in his hand. At sixty-two, he remains imposingly broad, silver hair swept back from a face marked by the same cruelty that defined my father. His son Ronan hovers nearby, perpetually in his shadow.

"Apologies for our tardiness," I announce, guiding Aoife forward. "Dublin traffic was unforgiving."

Declan materializes at my side, stance relaxed but alert. "Boss."

"All arranged?"

He nods slightly. "Extra security as requested. Exit routes clear."

Seamus approaches with artificial joviality. "Nephew! A surprise to see you accompanied tonight. And by such... a distinctive guest."

"Uncle." I accept his handshake, noting the excessive pressure—a childish dominance play. "You recognize Miss Gallagher, I'm sure."

"Patrick's daughter." He shifts toward Aoife, assessing her with cold calculation. "Last I heard, she was an insurance policy against Gallagher aggression. Not a dinner date."

"Circumstances evolve," I reply smoothly. "Miss Gallagher has proven her value extends beyond mere leverage."

Whispers ripple through the gathering. Aoife remains perfectly composed, her arm linked through mine in a convincing display of willing companionship rather than forced attendance.

"A word in private, nephew?" Seamus suggests, voice hardening despite his smile.

"After dinner," I counter. "Our guests await."

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