Page 96 of Irish Brute
And after I’m silent for an eternity, Braiden’s grip loosens. He staggers as if someone’s kicked the back of his knee, as if he’s lost the will to stand. He takes a single step away from me. Another.
But when he leaves me alone, I’m so cold I ache. Every bone in my body turns into an icy shard, slicing away at my flesh from the inside.
I’m empty.
I’m nothing.
“Please,” I say, barely able to make my frozen lips shape the word. “I just want to go home. I want to go to Thornfield.”
When Braiden turns back, his face is lit from within. His eyes go liquid, tears stopping just short of spilling onto his cheeks. It’s beautiful to watch, like a sunrise or a rainbow.
He cups my face with his hand. I tilt my head, just enough to add pressure.
Trap starts to say something; I see words form on his lips. But he shakes his head and steps back and says to Braiden, “Get her the fuck out of here.”
Braiden doesn’t give him a chance to change his mind. He puts his arm around me, holding me close to his side. We get to the freeport parking lot without looking back.
42
SAMANTHA
Braiden cranks the heat in the Jaguar, as high as it will go. I lean back against the headrest. My eyes are closed. I’m safe here. I’m going home.
Every inch of my body is exhausted, and my brain is full. I feel like I’ve been on a too-long vacation, like we’re late getting home. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll be able to call all my friends and tell them entertaining stories.
But no night of sleep will make me forget my terror in that tent. There was nothing entertaining about that man and his gun. I don’t have a single friend I can talk to about any of this.
As long as we’re in this car, though, I don’t have to think about a thing. I can listen to the tires rolling over the interstate. I can breathe in the scent of Braiden’s cedar and spice. I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
The closer we get to Thornfield, though, the more I know none of that is enough. Braiden saved me at the freeport. I owe him my life.
I owe him words.
I owe him all the things I’ve been thinking for the past five weeks, all the things I’ve learned. Braiden and I said horrible things to each other at the Rittenhouse. When we were angry, when we were stressed, we went straight for each other’s most vulnerable parts. We fought to wound each other as deeply and as cruelly as possible.
We need to talk, both of us. But not while he’s driving.
The Jaguar doesn’t stop until we reach Thornfield’s gate. Braiden rolls down the window, greeting the man on duty. He doesn’t bother putting the car in the garage; instead, he parks just a few steps from the front door.
Now. I have to say something now. Because if he doesn’t feel the way I do, if his killing that man at the freeport was merely a reflex, an instinct like a dog pissing on its territory, I need to know now. I’ll have to pack up my broken heart and leave.
He’s about to open his car door when I say, “Wait.”
He turns to me, worry tightening his face. I see him scan my body, as if he’s searching for an injury he missed, a wound that needs immediate medical attention.
Iamwounded. We both are. And the only way to heal is by speaking.
“That night,” I say. “At the Rittenhouse.”
He sighs and sinks back into the driver’s seat. Staring out over the steering wheel, he says, “The summit fucked with my mind. Fiona Ingram playing General. Handing over territory to Russo. Losing the shipment.”
It takes every ounce of my legal training to keep my voice even. “And you thought it was all my doing. Me, working for Russo.”
He grips the wheel with both hands. “I didn’t know what to think. Madden said?—”
“Madden!”
“He heard Russo talking in the jacks. He heard the gobshite say you were in his bed. You were working for Russo.”
