2. Aoife
CHAPTER 2
AOIFE
REBELLION & ROOTS
I slip into The Fiddler's Hearth through the back entrance, the music pulling me in like a current. The pub sits deep in Donovan territory, which makes coming here a death wish, but the risk sends a thrill up my spine. My name—Aoife Gallagher—might as well be painted on my forehead with a target. Still, tonight I need an escape from the suffocating walls of my family's estate.
The ancient wooden floor creaks beneath my boots as I navigate past clusters of smokers. A traditional music session fills the cramped space—bodhrán drum setting a heartbeat as a silver-haired man coaxes notes from a fiddle that make my skin prickle. I tuck my copper hair deeper under my hood, keeping my face down.
"What can I get you?" The barman gives me a once-over, distrust written across his weathered face.
"Jameson. Neat." I slide a few euros across the sticky counter, angling away before he can put a name to my face.
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, warming my insides. I claim a corner spot, positioning myself with a full view of both exits—a survival tactic hammered into me since I could walk.
The musicians huddle together, instruments catching the pub's muted copper tones. Their music starts as a lament before building to a frenetic pace that sends electricity through my veins. For these stolen moments, I can pretend I'm not Patrick Gallagher's daughter, not the heiress to Dublin's most notorious crime family.
My fingers find the gold pendant at my neck—a Celtic knot my mother gave me before illness took her. "Wear this for strength, a stór ," she'd whispered. "When the world tries to crack you open."
As the band launches into "The Rocky Road to Dublin," patrons stomp and clap. I drain my glass and signal for another. Two hours of freedom before returning to my gilded cage—that's all I'm allowing myself.
"Got some nerve." The voice cuts through the music. A man drops into the chair across from me without invitation. His jacket shifts, revealing the outline of a pistol. "Coming to this neighborhood."
I keep my voice neutral despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. "I'm enjoying the music. That's all."
He leans closer, whiskey fumes mingling with tobacco on his breath. "Aoife Gallagher sitting pretty in Donovan territory. Must be my lucky night. Do they noy have music on your side of the tracks? Or are you just stupid?"
A cold rush floods through me. I calculate distances—back exit too far, front door now blocked by three men who weren't there before. My hand inches toward the blade strapped to my thigh.
"Tell Cormac Donovan to piss off," I say, injecting venom into my tone. "If he wants to threaten me, he can deliver the message himself."
The man's mouth curls upward. "Funny you mention the boss. He's real eager to meet you. In person."
I scan the room again. Five men total, strategically positioned by both exits. All armed. No chance of fighting them off. I’m well and truly fucking trapped.
"Not interested in a social call." I stand abruptly. "Move aside."
"That wasn't a request, princess."
I fling my whiskey into his face and lunge for the kitchen. Shouts erupt behind me as I crash through the swinging doors. A cook jumps back, cursing in Gaelic. I knock over a tray of glassware—the shattering creates a momentary distraction.
The back alley beckons through the service exit—narrow, dark, promising escape. I burst outside, cold air hitting my flushed skin. Freedom waits just beyond the street corner if I can?—
A vise-grip clamps around my arm, yanking me backward. The stench of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes invades my space as a broad-shouldered man slams me against rough brick.
"Got her!" he calls out.
Instinct takes over. I drive my knee upward into his groin. He doubles over with a grunt of pain. I twist free, ready to sprint, when a fist connects with my jaw. Another thug appears, smirking at me through yellowed teeth.
"Feisty little thing," he laughs. "The boss said you'd be trouble."
Copper fills my mouth. I switch to Gaelic, words my grandmother taught me. "Go raibh na Sí ag do thóir!" I spit the curse at him. "May the féar gortach haunt your dreams, may the hungry grass drain your worthless soul!"
He strikes me across the face. "Speak English, you crazy?—"
"Enough!" A new man steps into the alley, taller and more commanding than the others. "Cormac wants her unharmed. You going to tell him that shiner, was you?"
I spit blood onto his polished shoes. "Worried I won't look pretty enough for your master's collection? He likes ring-bunnies, and cover models."
The tall man ignores my taunt, addressing his men. "Get her secured. Car's waiting."
I fight as they grab my arms, twisting and clawing. My nails rake down one man's cheek, drawing blood. Another curses when my boot connects with his kneecap.
"This is taking too long," the leader mutters, producing a syringe. "Hold her still."
Fresh panic jolts through me. "Don't you dare!" I thrash harder, screaming now. A meaty palm clamps over my mouth, muffling my cries. The needle pricks my neck, sending fire through my veins.
The alley tilts and swirls. My limbs grow impossibly heavy.
"Sweet dreams, princess," a mocking voice says as blackness swallows me whole.
* * *
The rumble of an engine pulls me back to consciousness. My wrists burn, bound tight with plastic zip ties. My mouth tastes like ash and copper.
"She's waking up," a male voice announces.
I pry my eyelids open. Three men in the vehicle with me. Dublin streetlights create streaks across tinted windows. My pendant presses against my collarbone, a small comfort in this nightmare.
"Where are we going?" The words scrape from my dry throat.
The driver flicks a glance in the rearview mirror. "To meet Cormac Donovan."
A chill runs through me despite the car's warmth. Cormac Donovan. The man whose bare-knuckle fights are legendary. Who ordered my brother beaten almost to death last year. Whose family has warred with mine for three generations. A monster with a perfect smile, and enough charm that no one sees the villain.
"What does he want with me?" I demand, though the answer seems obvious. Revenge. A message. Leverage .
Silence answers as we leave the city center, heading north toward Howth Peninsula. The Donovan estate. I've seen surveillance photos—stone walls, armed guards, security systems. A fortress that people enter by invitation only, but don't always leave.
I test the zip ties. Too tight to slip. The drug still clouds my thinking, making escape possibilities murky.
"My father will slaughter every one of you for this," I say, voice steady despite my racing pulse. "He'll hunt your families, too."
The man beside me laughs. "Your daddy should've considered that before hitting our shipment."
So that's what triggered this. Liam's operation at the docks. My brother's recklessness has painted a target on my back yet again.
The car slows, turning onto a private drive flanked by ancient trees. Terror mixes with anger in my gut as iron gates swing open. Beyond them stands a mansion of gray stone and crawling ivy. Security floodlights wash over manicured grounds patrolled by armed men.
We pull up to the front entrance—grand stone steps leading to massive oak doors. A dwelling built to intimidate and impress.
"Move," orders the tall man, cutting my zip ties only to replace them with cold metal handcuffs.
My legs wobble as I exit the car. "My family will find me."
"We're counting on it," he says, shoving me forward.
Inside, the manor reeks of leather, wood polish, and testosterone. Artwork worth fortunes hangs alongside medieval weapons. A monument to blood money and ruthless power. They march me through corridors past curious stares from Donovan soldiers.
We stop before imposing double doors. The tall man knocks once.
"Enter," commands a deep voice from within.
The doors swing open to reveal a study lined with leather-bound books. A massive desk dominates the space. And there, looking like sin personified, stands Cormac Donovan.
I've glimpsed him before—charity galas, funerals, places where rival families maintain frigid civility. But never this close. Never alone.
He fills the space with raw physical presence. Broad shoulders stretch his tailored shirt. Dark hair, close-cropped at the sides, longer on top. Strong jaw darkened with stubble. And his expression—calculating, predatory, with a coldness that freezes my blood.
Fresh bruises mark his knuckles. The boxer. The heir. The blue-eyed nightmare my father warns about.
"Leave us," he tells his men without looking away from me.
"Sir, she might?—"
"I can handle one little woman." His voice brooks no argument. "Out."
The men retreat, closing the doors with a harsh click. Trapping me with Dublin's most dangerous bachelor.
I lift my chin, refusing to cower despite the flood of adrenaline and fear. "If you plan to kill me, Donovan, skip the theatrics."
One corner of his mouth quirks upward. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have woken up. I certainly wouldn’t bring you home to kill you, murder is messy."
He circles the desk with fluid grace, each step bringing him closer. I retreat until my back hits a bookcase.
"Then what?" I demand. "Ransom? My father doesn't pay?—"
"Your father," Cormac interrupts, "crossed a line." He stops mere inches away, close enough that his scent—expensive cologne mingled with whiskey and something darker—invades my senses. "Actions carry consequences, Miss Gallagher."
I stare up at him, defiance masking fear. "Do your worst."
His gaze travels down my body with insulting slowness before returning to my face. He reaches out, fingers brushing the gold pendant at my throat. The casual possessiveness of the gesture sends an unwelcome spark through my body.
"Be careful what you wish for," he murmurs, voice dropping to a rumble that vibrates against my skin.
His proximity triggers something primal—a mixture of fear and unwanted awareness. His thumb traces my jawline where a bruise forms from his thug's handiwork.
"My men marked what's mine," he says, disapproval evident. "That won't happen again."
"I'm not yours," I spit back, hating how my body betrays me with a shiver.
Cormac leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Everything in this house belongs to me. Including you. You’re in my house, you are very much, mine ."
I shove against his chest, a futile gesture against solid muscle. "I'd rather die than be your possession."
He captures my wrists in one large hand, pressing them above my head against the bookshelf. His body cages mine completely, an overwhelming wall of masculinity.
"Death isn't what I have planned for you, Aoife Gallagher," he says, my name rolling off his tongue like a dark promise. His free hand traces the curve of my waist, a touch that burns through fabric. "Your brother stole from me. Now I'm taking something precious from him."
"Liam doesn't care what happens to me," I lie, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps beneath his fingers.
"Your family will tear Dublin apart looking for you," Cormac continues, satisfaction coloring his tone. "And when they're desperate enough, they'll agree to my terms."
"Which are?"
His hand moves up to cup my throat, thumb pressing against my racing pulse point. Not enough to hurt, just enough to show me he is in control.
"Territory. Compensation. Respect ." His fingers tighten fractionally. "And maybe, if you behave, I'll let you go back to them. Eventually ."
In this moment, looking into those merciless blue depths, I realize I've become caught between monsters in a game of power. But Cormac Donovan will learn—I'm nobody's toy. I can’t be possessed.
With calculated precision, I bring my knee up between us, aiming for his groin. He anticipates the move, twisting to avoid impact, but it creates enough space for me to break free.
His laugh fills the study—a sound of genuine amusement that chills me more than anger would. "I hoped you'd fight. Breaking you will be so much more satisfying this way."
"You'll never break me," I promise, backing toward the doors even knowing escape is impossible.
Cormac watches me with the patience of a predator who knows his prey is cornered. "We'll see, princess. We have all the time in the world."