Page 29 of Irish Brute
Lucky for me, she doesn’t hear a thing. She stands and looks over her shoulder again, this time staring straight into my office, into the camera, into my gaze. She wipes her hand on the thigh of her jeans and moves out of range of Declan’s lens.
I tap an icon to save the video before I send a text to Eoghan. He’s at the front door within five minutes. He must see something in my face, because he doesn’t say a word, just raises the privacy screen between us.
I sink into the back seat and pinch my lip between my fingers.
Oh, Samantha. I warned you. Now you’ll have to pay.
12
SAMANTHA
As far as the freeport knows, I’m on my honeymoon. They don’t expect me to check my email for a week. My voicemail is being monitored by Mary Rivers, my perfectly capable assistant.
But Braiden and I never planned a lovers’ getaway after our spur-of-the-moment wedding. And even if we had, he wouldn’t be free to go, not with Don Antonio declaring open war on the Fishtown Boys.
So there’s nothing keeping me from diving into a stack of issues at the office. Actually, I’m still clearing away a backlog from the holidays. There’s a challenge from the Internal Revenue Service, questioning a quarterly filing. Kent County, Delaware has nearly quadrupled our real estate tax based on the freeport’s new racetrack, and I need to formally request a reevaluation. There are new insurance policies to review because of the track, and we have an ongoing dispute with the plumbingcontractor. Trap has asked me to take his seat at the Chamber of Commerce, and I have a stack of reading to complete before our first meeting, in two weeks.
The mysterious Declan hasn’t configured my new office yet; Fairfax said he’ll be out this afternoon. I’m content to work on my new laptop; between it and my phone, I can access the majority of my files at the office.
I’m deep in the weeds of the IRS matter when my office door closes with a bang. Startled, I look up to see a furious Braiden.
His tie is loose at the neck of his white shirt. His hair is ruffled, as if he’s run his fingers through it multiple times. His lips are so thin they nearly disappear, which makes the glow of his eyes all the more striking.
With careful precision, he turns the lock on the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, springing to my feet. Sweat prickles in my armpits, and I have to remind myself to take a full breath.
“On your knees,” he says, pointing to the rug beneath his feet.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“On. Your. Fucking. Knees.”
The insane thing is, I obey. It feels like some force grabs hold of my body, like invisible strings pull my arms and legs. That voice of his, that low, brutal growl…
It’s the same tone he used when he ordered me to eat, back in my condo, the one that made me drink after Russo left my home. Something inside me is tuned to that frequency, something that was primed by his dirty talk yesterday, in the safe room. My heart goes wild, beating so hard I’m sure he can hear it where he’s standing, towering over me. My lips are numb, and I’m breathing too fast, too hard.
My brain knows I chose to play with fire, marrying this man. My body has just discovered it has to pay the price.
“One fucking rule,” he says.
Before I can ask him which one of his rules, because he’s issued plenty, he wraps his fist around my hair and yanks my head back to an almost-painful angle. His other hand thrusts a phone in my face.
The video is already running, like he’s been playing it on repeat. I see myself approach the forbidden door. I look over my shoulder. I test the knob and listen.
I can’t argue innocence; the footage on the camera is as clear as a feature film. I can’t argue mistake; that’s clearly my face on the recording, not anyone else in the house. Ignorance is out the window too—we both know the rule he set.
The video starts again. He tightens his grip on my hair. “Beg,” he says.
“For what?” His demand is so absurd my voice cracks.
“Beg to stay here.”
“On myknees?” I scoff as something crackles inside me. I know what he means, but I can’t keep from fanning the dangerous flames I’ve kindled.
“Watch your smart mouth. Beg to stay at Thornfield.”
“You cannot be serious.”
