Page 97 of Irish Brute
“And you believed him?” My voice cracks.
“He’s my Clan Chief. It’s his job to keep me safe.”
“I’m yourwife.”
His throat works. He starts to say something. Stops. The carbon-fiber steering wheel looks like it might splinter beneath his hands. “I felt trapped, Samantha. Like a fucking mad dog. I was losing so much of Fishtown. And when I started losing you too, something just snapped inside my skull. I can’t explain.”
“But it wasRusso.” Just saying his name coats my tongue in bitter metal. “You honestly thought I’d work for him?”
“I wasn’t thinking at all. I was just feeling. And we both know how that shitehawk works. If he had leverage on you, anything at all?—”
“Hedidhave leverage! And I didn’t let him use it. He released the truth about that that night on the mountain because I didn’t give in.”
“I see that now. I understand. All I can say is I wasn’t thinking straight. I was desperate because I was afraid I’d lose everything. But the things I said… Throwing you out of the room… I lost the only thing that mattered. I lost you.”
His voice shakes and he closes his eyes, touching his forehead to his fist on the wheel. “I’m so, so sorry,” he says, as if he’s taking a vow. “I’m not that type of man. God knows, I’m not that type of Dom.”
I wince, because that last part is the woundIgave him. I called him a fucking animal, which was never fair. When Braiden has me in my collar, he’s the furthest thing from an animal.He’s calculating. He’s measured. He’s one hundred percent in control.
“I was wrong,” I say. “I had no right to bring sex into it. That wasn’t fair.”
He shakes his head. “I trapped you against that door.”
“I knew, even then, you’d never hurt me.”
“But I did. I threw the car crash in your face.”
“I meant?—”
“I know what you meant. But of all the things we said to each other, all the things I did… That’s what I regret most. You made a mistake eleven years ago, and three people died. But I had no right to use that against you. Christ, I have enough blood onmyhands.”
I stare at his hands. They’re literally splashed with the blood of the man he killed for me. For the first time, I realize his shirt is torn; the sleeve is ripped open. A shallow wound oozes dark blood down the length of his forearm.
I gasp. “You’re bleeding!”
“I’m fine.”
I reach toward his wound. I won’t touch it; I won’t cause him more pain. But I can’t help but trace the jagged scar beneath this fresh injury. “What happened to you? Before tonight. How did you get your scar?”
He doesn’t want to tell me. I see the set of his shoulders, the iron that wires his jaw. But we’re sharing truths here. And I watch him decide to give in.
“You’ve heard about the St. Ann shooting?”
Of course I have. It was one of the worst days in Philadelphia’s history. Seventeen children and five nuns were killed by a madman. I nod.
“I was there. I was six years old. In first grade. Sister Mary Margaret hid us in a closet. She was praying her rosary when shedied.” So many years later, and his face his still haunted, as if he’s watching the attack on a wide-screen TV.
“You must have been terrified.”
He shakes his head, a single tight toss. “I was a coward.”
“You were just a little boy!”
His chin juts forward. “I should have done something. I could have saved everyone.”
I nestle my palm against his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “Braiden. You were a child. Not a man, like tonight. You’re not afraid of anyone anymore. You savedme.”
He swallows hard. “When that fucker dropped his tray tonight… When I realized he had a gun…”
