Brutal Obsession (Irish Kings #2)

Prologue

Harper

I shoulder into King’s Crossing and head straight for the bar. The place bustles with people who came directly from work in their suits and business wear, so even though I’m clad head-to-toe in designer clothing, my jeans, sneakers, cropped black blouse, and magenta crossbody bag don’t quite fit in. No one seems to notice though as I slip onto a stool and the bartender slides a menu in front of me.

I order without looking, trying not to sound desperate enough to yank him down by his bow tie. “White wine. Any kind. Filled to the rim.”

By the time I’ve sucked down half a giant glass of pinot grigio, the tight squeeze of my panic has lowered a few levels, allowing me to breathe a little easier. I throw nervous glances at the building’s street-facing windows and pray I don’t appear as suspicious as I feel. The millisecond Bex’s blue Subaru shows up at the curb, I’m gone.

So far, tonight is playing out smoothly. Too smoothly.

I’d chalk my nerves up to my big walk down the aisle if I had any intention of going through with the wedding.

The escape plan is simple enough. Step one: let Bex—the pastry chef who works where I live—help me sneak off the estate through the kitchen and drive me off the grounds in the back of a food delivery truck. Step two: give Bex time to ditch the truck and return to the bar to take me to the airport.

Step three: get far, far away from the Irish Kings, one of the most powerful mafia families in New York City.

Among other business ventures, the Kings manage three high-end clubs that cater to parties thrown by the Manhattan elite with drugs, women, debauchery, and more. To the ignorant masses, that may sound glamorous, but to me it’s just crime, sex, and money with strobe lights in the background and glitter sprinkled on top.

The upper echelons of the Kings—Shane Gallagher, who’s the top dog, along with his closest men and their families—reside on the Gallagher estate, a sprawling mansion enclosed by walls and hedges twenty feet high. My father, Thomas Brennan, is a high-ranking official of the organization and a member of Shane’s inner circle.

That makes me, his daughter, a mafia princess.

A very, very anxious one who’s determined to be an ex-princess soon.

For the first time in my life, I’m defying my father. I’m ditching my arranged fiancé, Finn Gallagher, heir to the Kings and one of the deadliest enforcers in the city, and running away to start a new life on my own terms.

This betrayal is big enough to land me in deep shit, but I’d rather take my chances than end up like my mom—helpless, trapped, and tethered to a life she never chose.

I want the chance to find out who I really am, away from all the violence and insanity of the criminal underworld. I want what everyday people have.

A normal life. A real one.

And this is likely my only chance to achieve that.

As I try to snag the bartender’s attention for a refill, a familiar tingle on the back of my neck makes me shiver.

That tingle has served as an alert for my entire life.

Someone’s watching me.

This same prickling awareness strikes whenever I’m in a club and my father’s business partners show up, or when my security detail enters the room, their eyes trained on me.

The sensation that a hunter just prowled in and painted a target on my back.

Slowly, I shift my head one way, then the other. I don’t notice any of the telltale signs. A certain kind of suit, specific rings or tattoos, a prominent scar on someone’s face. The hard, flat eyes of a person who kills for a living. Nothing.

All the while, that targeted feeling intensifies, churning my already queasy stomach.

Shit. They’ve found me. My father caught on to my attempted escape. Bex could already be dead. And?—

“All alone? This has to be the saddest bachelorette party I’ve ever seen.”

My head snaps up at the sound of that smug, sultry voice. Dread explodes inside me like a shaken-up soda can as I slowly shift on my barstool to face the speaker.

Cian Freaking Mahoney.

Glittering green eyes meet mine. They’re set into an angel’s face, framed by dark, luscious curls which provide the crowning touch on a body that belongs half naked selling men’s cologne on billboards. A pretty-boy player extraordinaire.

My father found out about my jailbreak and sent him after me?

Cian Mahoney is hot as sin and damn well knows it. Sure, he’s dangerous, but he’s also a glib, pompous?—

My recitation of his negative character traits cuts off when his greeting sinks in. Wait. If he’s here to drag me back, why mention my bachelorette party?

That’s when I notice his outfit.

A crisp, black button-down hugs his muscled chest. The open buttons at the top reveal the base of his neck and a peek of the chiseled marble between his pecs. Whether he’s wearing the aftershave of the gods or the delicious, woodsy scent radiating off him is his natural musk, I’m uninterested.

I’m also uninterested in how his proximity sparks electricity along my nerve endings.

What I am interested in is why he’s dressed like some gigolo on the prowl when he’s here to drag me back to the mansion.

Unless…what if Cian isn’t here for me?

The first glimmer of hope cuts through my fear.

To buy myself time, I sip the dregs of my wine and cast a glance around the crowded bar. A gaggle of women seated on a low, circular couch throw hungry, impatient looks our way, presumably calculating which one of them gets to ride in the passenger seat when Cian takes all of them home later for a nightcap.

I’d bet money that his idea of a nightcap involves an orgy.

As I watch, Cian winks at them. Based on their elated expressions, even that slight acknowledgement will trigger the need for more than one panty change.

My nose wrinkles at that oh-so-delightful visual, while some of the tension eases from my shoulders.

Cian’s not here for me. Nothing’s wrong. My father doesn’t know anything.

This is just a coincidence. A horrible, terrifying coincidence.

I’m still safe and in position to escape.

As long as I don’t slip up now, that is.

My cheeks pinch up into a forced smile. “No surprise that you’re the expert on sad bachelorette parties.”

I jerk my chin at the cheerleading squad impatiently awaiting his return, and his eyebrows rise at my unusual show of snark.

Blood rushes to my cheeks. This show of sass is unlike me, but I’m trying to grow a spine. Maybe I’ll finally succeed once I leave this place.

“Who says they’re with me?” Cian’s sly grin answers the question for him.

I roll my eyes and refuse to dignify him with a reply. When the bartender peers my way, I tap the rim of my empty glass and use the moment to cast another glance toward the street.

What the hell is taking Bex so long?

“Isn’t it a little late for you to be out before the big day?” At Cian’s next question, my eyes snap to a clock on the wall. My shoulders relax once I confirm I still have a few hours before my flight leaves. “Pre-wedding jitters?”

“No . ” The speed of my denial rips the smug smile off his mouth. If I weren’t anxious enough to sweat right through my clothes, I might wonder about the unhappy expression that flits across the ridiculously handsome masterpiece he calls a face.

“Then, what are you doing here?” His voice drops an octave. The gravely baritone has me crossing my legs and squeezing my thighs together for no damn reason.

Okay, that’s a lie. I just don’t feel like admitting the reason to myself. Not a single part of me wants to contribute to Cian’s oversized ego, even if the ego-stroking only occurs inside my head.

By the time the bartender comes around with the wine, I’ve regained my composure. I grab the glass and gulp a quick mouthful. “Can’t a girl buy herself a drink without getting harassed?”

Cian stalks closer. “I don’t know, can she?”

He steps between my legs and braces his hands on my armrests, effectively trapping me on the stool. My skin heats up, and I lean back as far as I can in a futile attempt to tame my stuttering pulse.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He should know he can’t get this close to a woman without consequences. Not with all those pheromones leaking off him. He could hurt someone.

Namely, me.

The charming expression he usually wears like a custom-tailored shirt is nowhere to be found. Instead, his eyes appear stormy.

He inches closer and bends down to growl in my ear. “Why did you agree?”

My brain blanks. “Agree to what?”

With his huge body boxing me in and his warm breath fanning my cheek, I struggle to focus. Honestly, it should be a crime for one man to ooze so much sex appeal.

“Agree to marry Finn. He’s not the one you want.”

When he straightens, his cocks his head, studying me with predatory gleam stillness.

I blink and wonder if I’m dreaming. For the life of me, I can’t come up with a single rational reason for those words to stumble from Cian’s mouth.

When seconds tick by without a response, his lips twitch up into a knowing grin.

That’s enough to help me find my tongue. “Excuse me?” I squeak.

He grips my chin and tilts my head so he can drag his nose up the side of my throat. “Go ahead. Admit that I’m right. Admit that you want me instead.”

The taunt knives across my already frayed nerves. The overwhelming force of his presence, that edible scent of his, the way his slightest touch just caused an outbreak of goosebumps…it’s all too much. Combined with rising anxiety over catching my flight without getting caught, the arrogance dripping off him like melted butter snaps the last of my control.

Fast as a heartbeat, I grab my glass and toss pinot grigio at his face.

“What the fuck?”

He recoils, squeezing his eyes shut while white wine streams down his perfect cheekbones and onto his crisp shirt.

Reason returns as I gawk at him in horror.

Holy shit. Did I really just do that? I feel like I somehow channeled my sister Riley’s attitude.

Time for me to leave. I can wait for Bex outside.

After flinging enough cash on the bar to cover my bill, I scurry between tables toward the exit, using the adrenaline raging in my veins to lend me speed.

Shoving through a door beneath a red exit sign, I haul ass straight out into the alley behind King’s Crossing .

Great. Cian wound me up so much that I took a wrong turn leaving the freaking bar. There’s no way I’m going back in there though. Not with you-know-who wearing my pinot grigio and probably in the midst of plotting my death.

I orient myself to the main street, his statement replaying with every step.

He’s not the one you want.

Cian knows as well as I do that arranged marriages are the norm in our world. Why he decided to taunt me about my wedding day as though I chose any of this for myself is beyond me.

Whatever the reason, screw him. Who does he think he?—

Thick fingers clamp around my forearm.

I whip back, ready to unleash a scream until that heady, woodsy scent envelops me.

Glancing down at the oversized paw wrapped around my arm, I huff out a shaky sigh. “Please let go.”

“Who knew Harper Brennan was hiding such a temper beneath that good-girl act? I should make you clean the wine off my face and chest with your tongue.”

The idea of licking Cian anywhere pulses a bolt of desire through my veins. “I asked you to let me go. Please.”

Though he releases me, he remains in my personal space. “Where are you going?”

My heart kicks my ribs.

“Home,” I lie.

“I’ll drive you.”

I gulp. “No, thanks.”

“I was a little out of line before.”

My head rears back in shock. A King apologizing? The apocalypse must be near. I always figured not saying sorry was one of those things they taught mafia guys during the initiation process.

Whatever. I refuse to be impressed that Cian meets the minimum requirement for basic emotional intelligence.

“You were more than out of line.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“You’ll have to forgive me, princess.” He crowds into my space again, towering over me. “But when my best friend’s fiancée shows up at a bar the night before her wedding, alone and downing wine like it’s her last night on earth, it makes a guy wonder.”

“Funny. Having one of my fiancé’s best friends show up at a bar and sniff my neck has a similar effect on me.” With my pulse thundering over my audacity, I lift my chin and don my best Thomas-Brennan’s-spoiled-daughter face. “My relationship with Finn is none of your business. Why don’t you run back along to your fangirls, and we’ll forget this ever happened?”

Cian stares down at me with an expression I’ve rarely witnessed from him.

Serious. Broody. “What if I don’t want to forget it?”

“Please stop messing with me and go away.”

I dart past him and swing toward the street. I don’t have time for this. Bex must be at the curb by?—

Quick as sin, he’s on me. His hands, his heat, the bulk of his body. All of them press into me until my back hits the restaurant’s outer wall.

I’m shaking inside. Literally shaking. And that reaction pisses me off.

Why? Why do I get this way around him? The guy’s a well-known player, and even if he weren’t, I’m trying to escape the current man in my life, not acquire a new one.

Not even one who saved me once upon a time.

As for Cian, I have no clue where any of this is coming from.

All my thoughts evaporate when I meet his gaze head-on, mere inches separating our lips.

He braces his hands against the stone on either side of my head, caging me to the alley wall.

His warm, minty breath caresses my face as he grits out two words. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m twenty-three, not sixteen.” I try not to sound flustered, even as my knees threaten to buckle. “I’m not falling for,” I gesture at his body, “whatever this is.”

Meanwhile, my heart hammers violently enough to bruise my ribs. I want to insist that he give me space, but I’m trapped in this strange, unexpectedly intimate moment.

“One night.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

His meaning takes a few moments to register. Once it does, my jaw drops. Is Cian Mahoney asking me to spend the night with him? Me, his best friend’s fiancée? On the night before our wedding?

Despite the incredible inappropriateness of that suggestion, heat pools between my legs. One night with Cian. One night to explore his naked body. To feel his mouth on me and put mine on him. To experience the weight of his body pinning me to the bed and feel him filling me up, over and over again…

My face burns. “I need to go.”

“One hour.”

“Cian Mahoney, if you don’t get away from me…”

“Five minutes.”

I pause. “What could you possibly do in five minutes ?”

Seems like a legitimate question until he runs his tongue along his bottom lip because, oh crap, that’s hot.

Is that what he’s suggesting then? A kiss?

Because kissing Cian would be an epic intelligence failure on my part.

Maybe that explains my sluggish brain and why I can’t stop zooming in on his lips.

He leans into me until our foreheads press together, his skin still damp and sticky from the wine. The scent of him mixed with pinot grigio swirls up like an alcohol-laced aphrodisiac.

“Is that a yes?” he rasps.

Our mouths hover so close together that his lips brush mine as he speaks. Even that miniscule bit of contact is enough to turn my skin feverish.

It’s as if his nearness fries the logical part of my mind at its power source. I’m short circuiting. That’s the only explanation for what I say next.

“Two minutes.”

His lips crash onto mine faster than I can shut my eyes and give in.

Kissing Cian is terrible. Mainly because he’s such an amazing kisser that it turns me into a hypocrite for hating on all the women who throw themselves at him.

If I’d known that making out with him would feel this incredible, that he would taste this incredible, I might have jettisoned my dignity and offered myself to him on a plate ages ago.

That’s how good his mammoth hands feel as they stroke up my ribcage, grazing the sides of my breasts. That’s how good his tongue feels as he plunders my mouth, stirring a tight warmth in my lower belly with every stroke.

As we devour each other, a strange sense of triumph surfaces. Maybe it’s because I always suspected Cian would be like this. Adonis on the outside, prowling jaguar on the inside. Or maybe that flare of victory comes from the knowledge that publicly making out with someone other than my fiancé on the eve of my wedding is the most defiance I’ve shown in my entire life.

Tonight, I’ve broken every rule I could possibly break, down to fooling around with one of the Kings’ top enforcers. I’m almost proud of this wild detour my night has taken, but when the phone at my hip buzzes, I remember who I am, and why I need to stop kissing Cian now .

When he groans against my lips and yanks me closer, pressing every inch of his erection into my belly, I realize I don’t know how to stop.

It’s not until his hot palm brushes over the bare skin of my stomach that my eyes startle open, the trance breaks, and I’m able to extract my lips from his.

In this moment, I know I’ll remember the sensation of his hand on my belly, branding me forever.

Kissing Cian is hot yet bittersweet.

It’s like kissing the Kings goodbye.

Panting hard, we stare each other down.

Cian, the prince of poker faces, usually hides beneath an arrogant mask. Not now.

Now, lightning crackles in his eyes, and his hungry expression reveals everything in the electric silence.

Even though it would betray his best friend—and the rules of the family—Cian Mahoney wants me desperately .

The fact that I want him just as much is even more reason for me to get the hell out of here.

“I’m taking you home.”

I don’t know whether he’s offering to drive me back to the estate or stating his intention to get me between his sheets.

Though the latter implication appeals to me more than I’d care to admit, my phone’s still buzzing against my leg, so I just nod. Whatever I need to do to convince him nothing is amiss.

“Wait inside.” He removes his heavy hand from my bare waist, slow and steady, as if he thinks I’ll run. “I’ll go get my car.”

I nod again. Cian drags his thumb along my jaw and presses another kiss to my lips. The caress feels like a preview for the next episode, except little does he know, this series just got canceled.

He pulls away, stalks to the alley’s opening, and disappears. I count out twenty seconds before bolting in the opposite direction, sending up a silent prayer when I spot the blue Subaru idling at the curb.

After throwing one last glance over my shoulder, I dive into the passenger seat.

Cian’s gone.

And now, so am I.