Page 19 of Irish Brute
That’s whatIexpect.
Braiden has a different plan.
His hand is warm on the back of my bare neck. Firm. Commanding. He pulls me forward with such confidence that I forget there’s a priest standing three feet away.
His lips are on mine, asking, and I answer without thinking. Our tongues touch, which heats the space between us, changing everything.
His fingers tighten, shifting my head to a better angle. I sigh at the new balance, and his lips curl against mine. His tongue moves deeper, spearing me, and a sly heat starts to melt my spine.
My fingers clutch his biceps for balance and he’s there for me, strong and stable. His palm settles against my lower back, scalding through the flimsy fabric of my dress. He presses me close to his clean white shirt.
I want more. I need more. But a tiny voice remembers to whisper inside my skull—not here, not yet.
Braiden’s teeth close over my lower lip, hard enough that my brain registers the pain. I open my eyes, and he’s gazing at me as he eases away. His stiff fingers frame me, sheltering me until I’m able to stand on my own.
I should be ashamed. Embarrassed. We’re the worst sort of exhibitionists, standing in front of the altar, in front of the priest.
But I lace my fingers between Braiden’s. I let him tighten his arm and pull me closer to his side. And we stand there together, husband and wife, for more prayers, more blessings. Father Brennan doesn’t offer us communion, which is fine because I haven’t been to confession in over a year.
“Go in peace—” the priest finally says, the start of his formal dismissal.
Before he can finish, a cell phone rings out, painfully loud in the stone church. Father Brennan scowls. He starts his closing prayer again, but another phone squawks an alert. Then another rings, and another, until the church is filled with wordless, echoing alarms.
8
SAMANTHA
Braiden drops my hand like he’s been electrocuted. Ignoring the now-stammering Father Brennan, he strides down the steps to the first pew. One of his men hands over a phone before Braiden has to ask.
Movement at the back of the church snags my attention. Don Antonio is gliding out the door, followed by a snaking trail of his men.
A shudder rasps my spine as I move to Braiden’s side. “What—” I start to ask.
Before I can get my words out, Braiden snaps to his brother, “Get her home. Into the safe room.”
“I can’t—” I say.
“Madden,” Braiden says, not looking up from the phone in his hand.
Madden’s grip on my arm is like a bear-trap. I can either jog beside him in my white satin sandals, or I can let him drag me down the aisle. I opt for jogging.
Don Antonio is long gone. Trap and Alix are far behind me. Braiden’s men cluster around the dais, expressing outrage in language completely inappropriate for a church.
Madden marches me over to a Bentley limousine idling in the No Parking zone in front of the church. He opens the door to the spacious back seat and gives me a moment to slide in. I’m still gathering my skirt as he settles beside me.
“Thornfield,” he says to the driver. “Fast.” Then to me, “Buckle up.”
“Just a second,” I say, loud enough for the driver to hear me and stop. He doesn’t. But Madden leans across and grabs my seat belt, fastening it across my lap with the cool professionalism of a nurse.
I consider releasing the clasp, just to prove he can’t control me, but the car shoots through an intersection on the tail end of a yellow light, fast enough and late enough that a chorus of horns trails away behind us. I value my life more than making my point. But I glare my dissatisfaction as I ask, “What’s going on?”
Instead of answering, Madden says, “Eoghan? These streets are banjaxed. Take 30 instead.”
The driver merely nods, not bothering to flip his turn indicator before he bolts down a narrow alleyway.
“Madden,” I say, in case he’s somehow managed to forget I’m waiting for an answer.
“If Himself wanted you to know, he would have told you.”
