Page 8 of Bloody Knuckles

My fingers trace her collarbone, a possessive gesture meant to unsettle. Her skin burns against mine.

"Don't touch me," she hisses, jerking away.

I grab her wrist, yanking her against me. Our bodies press together, her softness against my hardness. "You'll need to adjust that attitude." I capture her chin, forcing her to meet me. "Your comfort depends entirely on your cooperation."

A pulse flutters at her throat. Hatred battles attraction as I hold her. The tension shifts, electric and dangerous. My cock hardens against her hip, and her sharp intake of breath tells me she feels it.

"I'll never cooperate with you," she promises.

"We'll see." I release her, noticing the flush spreading across her skin. "You'll find clothing in the bedroom. Dinner arrives at eight. Any dietary restrictions, tell Declan."

"I want to speak to my father," she demands. "Prove I'm alive."

"All in good time." I move toward the door. "Rest. Tomorrow, we can discuss your terms."

"Cormac." My name from her lips stops me. "This war between our families... people will die."

I turn back. "People always die in war, Aoife. The question is which people die first?"

Her fingers twist the Celtic pendant nervously. "And if I'm one of them?"

The question hangs between us, honest vulnerability piercing her armor. For a moment, I picture her lifeless—copper hair spread across blood-stained concrete, vacant and cold. The image disturbs me more than it should.

"That outcome benefits neither of us," I reply. "So, you’d best ensure your father understands what's at stake."

I step closer again, unable to resist. Her back hits the window as I cage her with my arms. "I can think of much better uses for you than a corpse."

Fear and disgust flash across her face, but underneath lurks something else—a flicker of forbidden interest her body can't hide. I lean in, my lips brushing her ear.

"Your father wronged me, Aoife. And I take payment in full." My hand slides to her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm. "Every. Single. Debt."

I bite her earlobe, hard enough to make her gasp. The sound goes straight to my groin. For a heartbeat, I consider taking her right there against the window, showing all of Dublin who owns her now.

Instead, I step back, savoring the conflict in her posture—hatred warring with unwanted arousal.

"Sleep well. Tomorrow we can begin your education."

I exit before she can respond, instructing the guards as the door locks behind me. Declan waits by the elevator.

"Four-hour rotations," I tell him. "No one enters except medical personnel if necessary. Food delivered on schedule. No communication devices, no exceptions."

"Understood." He hesitates. "The Gallaghers will retaliate. Hard."

"I'm counting on it." The elevator doors close, sealing us in. "Their desperation will make negotiations simpler."

Declan studies me. "There's another way to handle this. Less messy."

I know what he suggests. A bullet solves many problems. But Aoife Gallagher dead creates more issues than it resolves.

"She's worth more alive," I say. "For now."

As we descend, her image lingers—defiant yet vulnerable, hatred masking unexpected depth. The pendant against her throat. The flash of understanding when she saw my scars.

I flex my damaged hands, feeling phantom pain where my father's ring split skin years ago. Aoife saw what few ever notice. The weakness beneath my armor.

That makes her dangerous.

For now she belongs to me. And I'll take pleasure breaking her, piece by piece, until she begs for mercy—or perhaps for something else entirely.

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