Page 151 of Three Irish Kings
Taking a shuddering breath, I can only wish I could scream.
I stare at the neon lights above the bar, knowing Dare is in there and praying that something tells him to come check on me.
Damn Maggie Sullivan or whatever ancestor we shared that made us look alike.
“If you are looking for Maggie Sullivan, you have the wrong person. She’s dead,” I say hoarsely, but the man just chuckles.
“Please. I know we haven’t met in person yet, but I’ve heard your voice on the phone often enough. Just because you’re hiding your Irish accent doesn’t mean I can’t hear it, dolly.”
He ushers me out the back door, which is right next to the staircase, and the receptionist watches us with a single raised eyebrow.
Right before he drags me out, I have enough presence of mind through my terror to slide off the only present of Dare’s I'd kept—a tennis bracelet with a “D” charm.
The older man leads me to a Rolls Royce and shoves me into the backseat with another man, abigone, bigger even than Cillian.
I scramble to the door, but it’s locked and there are no lock mechanisms on the inside. It must be custom.
It’s not until I slowly start to put it together that I recognize Cormac Callahan.
I’ve only seen old pictures of him, when he was younger, so it took me some time to realize. Too much time.
“Look, I told you, I’m not Maggie Sullivan!” Tears spurt from my eyes as Cormac gets into the car and starts it, driving away.
I claw at the back window until the man in the back grunts and pulls me down.
I fight him, clawing at his forearm just as I did with Cillian that first night, that first night that seems now like a million years ago.
He hisses and hits me in the face, and everything goes fuzzy for a few seconds.
Cormac’s voice seems to come from far away. “Hey! We don’t hit ladies, Reese. Not yet, anyway.”
“She scratched me!”
“Don’t be a baby, boyo. You’re big; you can handle it.”
“Please,” I whimper, dignity lost when I think about the baby. “Don’t do this. Maggie is dead. My name is?—”
“Aye,” Cormac says cheerfully, and I know he doesn’t believe me from the tone of his voice.
I’ve heard the guys talk about him–how he doesn’t discriminate between men, women, or children, how he sells hard drugs to kids…
Not to mention, my father used to work for him. So, I can’t even give him my real name.
I’ve done my research over the years, and Cormac Callahan is known to be the most dangerous man in the city, even more so than Ronan Hayes.
I’m in and out of consciousness as we drive, my head spinning from being punched, and my left eye swelling up. God, he really hit me hard. I can’t keep my bearings, feeling dizzy.
It takes hours, but it seems like a blink that we’re hundreds of miles away from my men, coming back into the city limits.
Reese tries to touch me when we park, and out of instinct, I hiss and lash out with my nails, getting him along the neck.
He hits me again, and when I come to, my nose aches, and blood crusts my nostrils.
Blinking slowly out of my only seeing eye, I sit up and look around.
I’m in a huge bedroom, on a big, four-poster bed. Like the cottage, the thread count on these sheets is a lot higher than the bed and breakfast.
After a spell or two of dizziness, I manage to get up and walk to the door, trying the knob, but it’s locked from the outside.
