Page 9 of Bloody Knuckles

CHAPTER4

AOIFE

TRAPPED BY FIRE

The penthouse suffocates me with its luxury. Three days confined inside these gilded walls, watching Ha'penny Bridge span the Liffey below, taunting me with freedom just beyond reach.

Cormac visits daily, bringing demands wrapped in business proposals. His massive frame dominates the doorway whenever he arrives, power radiating off him. Each interaction ends with his touch lingering too long—fingers tracing my collarbone, palm pressed against my waist, marking me as property.

But tonight, he made a mistake.

The guard rotation changed at midnight. The newer one—Jenkins—brought dinner without checking that the balcony door latched properly. A tiny oversight. A crack of opportunity.

I wait until 2AM, counting seconds in the stillness. Moonlight spills across polished floors as I slide from beneath silk sheets. My captors think I’m broken after days of confinement. They're wrong.

The balcony access opens with barely a whisper. Cold night air rushes against me as I step outside. Ten stories separate me from the street, a deadly drop with no safe way down. But I didn't earn my reputation as Patrick Gallagher's wild child without learning a few tricks.

The neighboring building stands just six feet from the edge of my balcony. Between them runs a maintenance ladder, partially hidden by decorative stonework. Spotted during my daily observation of guard patrols, and changeovers.

I've changed into black jeans and a dark sweater stolen from the closet. Not ideal climbing gear, but better than the ridiculous dresses Cormac provided. The bastard enjoys watching me in them too much.

My pendant remains tucked beneath my sweater, its familiar weight against my skin the only comfort in this nightmare.Strength, a stór,my mother's voice whispers through memory.

I swing one leg over the railing, the metal cold against my palms. The drop below sends vertigo rushing through me, but I push it away. Fear is a luxury I can't afford.

The gap to the maintenance ladder looks wider from here. Six feet of empty air between me and the first rung. One mistake means death.

Worth it to escape Cormac's possession.

I take three deep breaths, position myself, and leap.

My hands connect with metal, impact jarring through my arms. For one terrifying moment, my grip falters—then holds. I hang suspended, adrenaline surging through my veins.

The descent takes forever, each rung a triumph against gravity and panic. My muscles scream in protest. The ground approaches inch by agonizing inch until my feet touch blessed concrete.

Temple Bar district buzzes with nightlife even at this hour. Drunken tourists and locals spill from pubs, their laughter a cover for my escape. I pull my hood up, keeping my head down as I weave through the crowd.This feels too easy.

Cormac's men will discover my absence soon. I need distance and a phone. My father's number is seared into my memory—one call and his soldiers will descend on Dublin like the wrath of ancient gods.

I duck into a narrow alley off Fleet Street, brick walls rising on either side. The shortcut should lead toward the main road where I can flag a taxi or find help.

Halfway down the passage, footsteps echo behind me.

I freeze, instinct recognizing danger before conscious thought catches up. The footfalls—deliberate, measured, familiar. Not the hurried pace of a drunk tourist or the stumble of a homeless person.

The stride of a predator.

I break into a sprint, boots slapping against wet cobblestones. The alley stretches endlessly, shadows swallowing any hope of sanctuary. Behind me, the footsteps quicken.

A figure steps out from a connecting passage ahead, blocking my path. Broad-shouldered, tall, unmistakable even in darkness.

Cormac.

I skid to halt, spinning to retreat, only to find Declan emerging from the direction I came. Trapped between them.

"Impressive," Cormac says, voice carrying in the narrow space. "Six minutes from alarm to finding you. A new record."

My fists clench at my sides. "How?—"

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