Page 24 of Her Irish Savage
“Where are you going?”
“I need a suit for the wake tonight.”
He’s talking like this is all perfectly normal. Like he didn’t turn me inside out last night. Like he didn’t keep the nightmares away, giving me five, six, seven straight hours of sleep.
He’s also ignoring the fact that I’m stark naked beneath the bedclothes. He hasn’t tried to cop a feel once this morning. He doesn’t even let his eyes linger.
Daddy.
That’s the magic word. That will get him back in bed. I know it in my bones.
Before I can say it, though, before I can decide if Iwantto say it, he heads into the bathroom. He leaves the door open, so I can hear him rummaging around; he must have filled the room’s plastic ice bucket while he was out on his morning rounds.
“Here,” he says, coming back to the side of the bed. He shoves a scratchy white hand towel toward me. “Keep this on until it melts.”
The makeshift ice pack isn’t as nice as a bag of frozen peas. But it feels good against my cheek and the bridge of my nose.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, halfway to the door.
You.
I could say it. I could throw back the covers. I could give him a glimpse of everything he’s walking away from.
But I don’t really understand why he’s leaving. Why he didn’t take care of his morning hard-on by using my body. Why he’s being so kind and why he’s ignoring everything we did last night.
So I shake my head no.
He comes back to the bed, and for just a moment I think he’s changed his mind. Or maybe—is it crazy to think this?—he’s going to give me a sweet kiss goodbye.
But he picks up my phone from the shelf. He holds it in front of my face, and when that doesn’t open the screen, he gestures for me to put in my code. Once it’s unlocked, he types in his number. I hear his own phone, buzzing in his pocket.
“There,” he says. “Call me if you need anything. Get room service if you’re hungry. I put out the Do Not Disturb sign. I’ll be back by three.”
Don’t go.
It’s not too late. I can say it. I can ask him to stay. I can beg.
I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. I’m going to be Captain of the Old Colony Crew. I don’t beg.
The door clicks closed.
I eat my bagel. I drink the rest of my lousy coffee. I sit with my ice pack covering my face. And I try not to think about how Patrick Moran shredded my life last night.
Moran comes out of the bathroom dressed like the mobster he is—black suit, black shirt, black tie. His hair is combed back, the gray more prominent in the hotel room’s dim light. He’s freshly shaved.
I can’t glimpse the ink on his arm—the lighthouse, the storm, the severed heartbeat. He doesn’t bother with his shoulder holster. No guard will let him into thedúnwith an obvious gun.
I wonder what other weapons he’s carrying.
And I wonder why that thought tickles something between my legs. I’m sore from Madden’s beating, but all that ice at Moran’s apartment worked wonders toward easing my pain. I could easily go for a round or two in bed.
Maybe the wires are crossed in my brain, and I’m mistaking annoyance for horniness. Moran said he’d be back at three, and he didn’t show up until five minutes after four. I spent the extra hour wondering if something terrible had happened, if theCrew had tracked him down, if he was paying for driving me to thedúnlast night.
I told him as much when he finally came back to the hotel room, carrying a new suit and a half-drunk energy drink. He shrugged and glanced at his phone, like the screen should have told him he was running late. He hit the shower while I was still mid-tirade.
I’m starving. It’s been hours since I ordered lunch—a large Caesar salad with extra anchovies and a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a chocolate chip cookie the size of my head. After eating every last bite, I took a steaming shower. I applied a perfect mask of makeup to cover my bruises.
I’m wearing my favorite corset, the one made out of black leather, with scarlet lacing up the sides. Staring straight at Moran so he can’t misunderstand my meaning, I raise my chin. Shifting my weight, I let my hips issue a familiar invitation.
