Page 70 of Irish Brute
I’m finally stripping my tie from my collar when I get to my own bedroom. I’m not a saint. For just a moment, I think about what I could do with that length of silk—how I could wrap it around one of Samantha’s wrists, or better yet, an ankle…
But Samantha is one of the walking wounded tonight.
And she isn’t in my bed.
I turn on my heel and straight-arm the door to her guest room.
She’s sitting up in bed, a book open on her lap. In deference to the bandage wrapped around her shoulder, she’s stolen one of my shirts. Three buttons are fastened, which lets me see her panties are plain white silk.
Her hair is loose, all combed out now. She’s got circles under her eyes, dark hollows that tell me she’s in a lot more pain than she let on before. She startles when the door hits the wall, but she recovers quickly enough.
“Hush,” she says. “You don’t want to wake Aiofe.”
She’s right. I don’t. But more than I want my ward to sleep, I want to know why my wife is reading in here. “You’re supposed to be in my bed.”
“Braiden,” she says, and my name sounds like a sigh on her lips. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
“What exactly do you think I’m going to do to you?”
“Whatever the fuck you want,” she snaps, and I realize she’s even more tired than I thought. “Isn’t that what my collar means?”
“That’s what it means when you choose to put it on. That’s what it means when we’ve agreed to play a scene.”
She looks uncertain, like she’s just realized she doesn’t know how to translate a complicated legal text.
“You’re my wife,” I say. “In sickness and in health.” I cross the room and lift her left hand, the one on her good side. I kiss the finger that wears my wedding band.
“I thought you wouldn’t want me,” she whispers.
“I want you,piscín. I want you bad enough that an hour-long cold shower sounds like a fine option. But somewhere along the way, I’ve learned how to control my baser urges when I must.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep. I don’t want to keep you awake with my reading.”
“I can drop off in the middle of a football match, with stadium lights on high.”
“I have to sit up. The covers won’t be even.”
“Now you’re just making up excuses,” I say. “Are you walking? Or am I carrying you to wear you belong?”
She walks. But she lets me hold her book. And I’m allowed to kiss her goodnight, before we both turn off our nightstand lights.
27
SAMANTHA
The next morning, I’m moving slowly when I enter the dining room. My entire body aches—from Russo’s abuse, from the way I wrenched my back trying to get away from him, and from sitting up all night without shifting position the way I longed to do.
I put on a brave face, though, because Aiofe looks terrified in her seat beside Braiden. Frowning, she touches her own arm, then points at mine.
“It hurts,” I tell her. “But I’ll be better soon.”
She nods, but I’m not sure she believes me. I’m spared coming up with a better answer by Fairfax sailing in from the kitchen. It seems like he has twice the usual number of dishes, and he fusses more than ever finding places for them on the table.
“Three square meals,” he says. “That will help your healing.”
“But not all at one time,” I say.
He laughs, but then he remembers the apple compote he left on the stove.
