Page 5 of The Games We Play
King and Clutch explaining.
And all the while, Iris endures as a row of simple stitches is executed down her thigh.
Cillian keeps his icy cold glare on me as he approaches the table.
I want to tell him to get the fuck out of my club. But one of the most important things in warfare is recognizing when you’re up against a bigger army.
Not only here in this room, but out in the world. Ó Ceallaigh’s organization is a lot bigger than ours.
“You want to tell me what happened,neacht liom?” I don’t know what the words mean, but Iris lets out a breath and relaxes her shoulders.
“I saw a truck hit a bike. I called the police. Turns out it was their president. They wanted answers. I gave them the only ones I had. Clutch shielded me while Spark tried to take out the people who shot me. Then brought me here.”
She’s concise. Factual. And Cillian nods.
Nothing more.
No words of consolation for his niece.
Cunt.
But I tune him out. Because Iris’s eyes are back on me. Even as the last of the stitches is knotted.
It’s intense.
Too intense for someone I met less than an hour ago.
And yet, something stirs inside me. It must be the surge of adrenaline, endorphins, or something.
But it’s sure as hell not normal.
Because I’ve got a longing to see where the brat goes when Iris is fucked hard. Which is a terrible idea, given she’s Ó Ceallaigh’s niece.
A sterile dressing is applied, then the guy who held her hand lifts her up.
The fucker is taking her from me.
I step forward, but King shakes his head.
I want to defy my president for her.
They’re leaving, but I know where she lives. I can find her.
Finally, only Cillian is left, and he squares up to King. “Come near one of mine again, and you’ll be picking lead out of someoneyoulove.”
And I know I’m fucked because there is no hope I can stay away.
1
SPARK
ONE MONTH LATER
Darkness cloaks us as I scan between shipping containers. My SIG sits comfortably in my palms, pointed to the ground, as my brothers take care of what we’re here for.
“Is that the last of them?” King quietly asks me. His dark hair flops over his face as he flicks his cigarette butt into the water.
I glance inside the shipping container as Saint, our priest, and Switch load another wooden crate into the van. “It is.”
