Page 76 of Stolen Rival
A headshake.
“One of his people?”
“Worse. One of my father’s enemies.”
My gut sinks. Being taken by the enemy is one of the things we’re warned about as kids. Stay close to the family. Don’t talk to strangers. Never leave where you’re supposed to be unless you have someone with you.
“My father eventually got me back, but it was a harsh lesson learned well.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, it’s important. I hope we’ve reached a truce and that you’ve accepted your place in this family and in my life, but I need you to truly understand the importance of staying inside the lines. People will take any opportunity to get to me—including using you.”
“Careful now, Patrick. You almost sound like you care.”
His eyes darken. “I do care.”
“Aye, because if I go, so too does your fortune and infamy.”
He gives a half shake like that’s not the reason, but he doesn’t say anything else. He takes another drink of his tea, his eyes swirling with a myriad of emotions like he’s tangled in a web of his own thoughts.
“I’ll do anything to protect what’s mine, whether that’s possessions, or people.”
“At what cost, though?” The urge to cover his hand sitting next to his mug with mine makes my fingers twitch.
“Is there a cost too high to keep those you love safe?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “But what’s life without a littlefun, Patrick? It’s no life at all.”
A lazy grin spreads across his face. “You sound like our Darragh. The curse of the youngest child, never giving a shite about anything other than having a good time.”
“I’m not the youngest though, Cathal is.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot. You act like the youngest so it’s easy to assume.” He eats another cracker. “Did you ever take dance lessons?”
It’s a strange question. I’m not sure where it came from or where he’s going with it. “No, but I think my brothers did.”
Patrick nods. “Makes sense. The ones in line to inherit the kingdom are educated in things that may help them in their future role.”
His explanation sounds quite ridiculous. “And you learned to dance because mafia bosses need to be able to bust a move?”
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, and I soak up the sound. I like it. Maybe a little too much.
“The dance floor is a great place to have conversations you don’t want people to hear. Loud music, lots of bodies in motion. If someone stops to listen to what you’re saying, it’s easy to spot. Wives and girlfriends pass along messages.” He’s making sense, but I still can’t imagine him on a dance floor moving to the music.
I cross my arms. “Prove it.”
That lazy grin widens. “Because you can’t imagine a man with all this ink being proficient in ballroom dancing?”
“No, Patrick, because I can’t imagine a grumpy shite like you being graceful on the dance floor.”
He stands up, a glint in his eye. Retrieving his mobile from his pocket, he presses the screen a few times. Music fills the room as he extends his hand. My skepticism must be written all over my face.
“What’s the worst that could happen,mo mhuirnín?”
I purse my lips. “Oh, I don’t know. A couple of broken toes? Or poor Titan gets her tail stood on?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He takes my hand and leads me onto the tiled kitchen floor. He tries to move, but my body resists. “Just lean into it and let me lead.”
