Page 35 of Iris
When they’re out of sight, I rub my eyes. I’ve been hanging around Killian too long.
I send him a long, loaded look, and he grins.
“What?” Killian asks, “I was nice.”
I sign,
“What is ‘questionable,’ Papa?” Emmie attempts to sign back but stumbles when copying the one word.
We made sure to teach her sign language when she started talking. She’s still a little clumsy, but better than most adults I know.
“You’re pretty damn chatty for a mute,” Killian says with a harsh laugh.
“Language!” Gasping, he lunges forward and claps his hands over Emmie’s eyes.
She lets out a shrieking giggle and says, “Daddy!”
I just side-eye him as he takes her from me and sets her down, spinning her on a barstool.
I glance at Emmie, who is too busy going round and round to track my hands. Still, I censor myself.
Killian signs back.
Emmie woozily rocks as the stool comes to a stop and then screams, “More!”
I repeat and glance at Emmie spinning.
“Emmie, did you hear that? Paper called you a monster.” He pauses the stool again.
“The prettiest monster in the world!” She laughs. “Spin, Daddy, spin!”
I collect my drink, sweep up some bar towels, and throw them into the dirty laundry hamper under the counter.
Killian stops spinning Emmie before she gets sick. I grab a broom and dustpan and begin to sweep up the glass shards. I’m going to have to get Emmie more or she’ll never forgive me.
The bar’s front door bursts open, and Killian automatically helps Emmie off the stool.
“Heya, Emmie?” Killian says, smile soft. Five young, rich Alphas tumble and weave in. It’s clear they’ve already been drinking, and I can smell their attitudes from here. So can Kil. He shoos Emmie toward the stairs. “Run up to Freya for a moment, okay? Go help Icy pick out something to wear.”
Her face lights up. “Okay, Daddy.” She’s off in the next second, stomping up the steps with Delores in hand.
I sign to him.
“We’re closed,” he says ignoring me. The five guys, all dressed in expensive suits, glance around.
Grinning, one pulls out a wad of cash. “No, you’re not. Money talks, and I have a lot to say.”
I can see the silent snarl curling his upper lip.
The group walks up to the bar and takes their seats.
“Five of your top shelf drinks,” the one with the cash says. “Do you have O’Malley Fire Whiskey?”
“We aren’t open,” Killian says again, this time through clenched teeth. “So go.”
“Not talking to you, buddy,” the guy says, and then turns to me. “I’m talking to the oaf?—”
