Page 7 of Dublin Charmer
The ringing rhythm from the orchestra downstairs vibrates through the floorboards, perfect to absorb whatever sounds we make.
She smiles wickedly, her pupils dilated with want. Her sequined dress catches the dim light from the bedside lamp, casting tiny reflections across the ceiling like a private constellation. She’s stunning, her head thrown back against the silk pillows, her hair fanned out behind her.
“You feel so fucking good.” My mind is buzzing, tripping out in the best way possible as her toned legs wrap tighter around my waist, urging me deeper.
The antique headboard bumps against the wall as I pick up the pace, finding a rhythm that makes her breath catch with each roll of my hips. Heat radiates between us, the sweet tension of release building with every movement, threatening to shatter us both into?—
The crack of gunfire cuts through the air.
We freeze, bodies joined, pleasure instantly replaced by confusion.
“Was that—” Ginny starts.
There’s another burst of gunfire, followed by screams.
“Shit.” I pull away, yanking up my pants. “Hurry.”
The haze of alcohol evaporates, replaced by sharp clarity and adrenaline. Ginny scrambles off the bed, tugging her dress down as she searches for her shoes.
“Are you armed?” she asks.
“For our family party? No.” I fasten my belt and grab her hand, the two of us rushing toward the door.
Heavy footsteps are thundering up the stairs, and I signal Ginny to get behind me. Carefully, I ease the latch of the lock free and step back to wait. If they’re searching for stragglers, maybe we can take them by surprise.
More gunfire erupts downstairs, and shouts echo through the hallways.
I strain to hear the voices of my brothers, but the noise below is too muffled to pick out any one person.
I reach back and make sure Ginny is tucked behind me, standing against the wall beside the door. She’s street smart enough from a lifetime of being raised in our world that she’s calm, even within the chaos.
I’m not sure whether they’ll search the rooms. If they do, whether they storm in or are stealthy, I’m ready.
I watch as the handle on the door turns and then the door swings slowly open. No one rushes the room, but movement behind the slab of swinging mahogany brings the muzzle of a Desert Eagle into view.
Before the asshole takes another step, I launch at the back of the door, pressing both palms flat and giving it a shove with everything I’ve got. The guy isn’t that big, and with the element of surprise, I’m able to knock him to the side.
I may not be the Quinn brother known for brawling, but I can hold my own in a dust-up. Rage and fear for my family burn hot in my veins as I throw myself at the fucker and grab him around the neck from behind.
He struggles and pushes himself back, twisting like an animal, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting go. He lifts his gun and points it behind him, letting off a shot that misses me but might’ve just busted my fucking eardrum.
Pain explodes inside my head, and I tighten my grip and twist. The snap of his neck ends his fight in an instant. He drops like a sack of cement, and I let him fall, my chest heaving as I press my fingers to the side of my head to prod the damage. My fingers come away slick with warm blood.
Motherfucker.
Ginny rushes past me, scrambling to pick up the gun from the floor.
My first instinct is to take it from her and protect her as we navigate whatever clusterfuck is happening downstairs, but the reality is—Ginny is an award-winning marksman—or marksperson, I suppose.
She’s more than a crack shot. She’s fucking lethal.
“Join the fray or get the fuck out?” she asks.
Honestly, I’m not sure, given that I don’t know what’s going on downstairs, but the truth of the matter is that it’s not just my brothers down there. Laine, Piper, Nora, and Harper are there, too. And Baby Q.
“I’m in for the fight. If you want to?—”
“Fuck off, Finn. My da is down there. I’m not leaving to save myself if there’s even a chance they’re alive and need our help.”
