Chapter 8
8
PATRICK
F iona whimpers when I finally pull out of her. This close, I can see the makeup she painted on, the way she covered up her bruises. I can count her ribs.
I push off the bed and reach down for her dangling feet. She twitches when I go for gentle, so I take hold of each ankle firmly. I have to work at getting the catsuit over her toes.
When I finally drop the vinyl on the floor, it looks like it couldn’t cover a doll. I kick it toward the door, then fold the snow-white duvet over Fiona’s still body so she doesn’t get cold. I find my skivvies, tangled in my jeans, and I stalk to the jacks.
Once I’m behind the closed door, I take care of the johnny and pull on my boxer briefs. I run water in the sink until it starts to steam, and then I splash my face. Hands planted on the counter, water dripping from my chin, I stare at the eejit in the mirror.
We were high on the adrenaline of being shot at. I let that gobshite at the front desk get under my skin—did I need a feckin’ pensioner’s discount? Fiona’s never met a man she wasn’t ready to tease. She’s a charmer, that one. And I couldn’t wait to dip my own oar.
The Bell rang, and I fucking answered.
Jesus Christ, this was a mistake. She’s a kid. And I don’t need anything tying me to this godforsaken city one second longer than necessary.
I trace the heartbeat inked on my wrist—up, down, up, down, up, down, flat—the way I have a million times before. The tattoo isn’t changing. There’s no going back.
But, fuck me, the drumbeat inside my brain is taking a breather. The twitch in my jaw is gone.
I know the science behind my brain’s jumbled chemicals. Mam read every one of the reports I carried home from school. She gave them to me and explained all the words I couldn’t understand, even though she couldn’t change the diagnosis.
The doctors call it a neurodevelopmental disorder—severe attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, combined-type. I know every last one of the scientific terms—endorphins and neurotransmitters, norepinephrine and serotonin, frontal cortex and basal ganglia and locus coeruleus. My highly genetic brain-based syndrome results in a failure to regulate my executive functioning skills.
Bottom line: My brain always craves something new. New activities. New sensations. New problems. I’ve got squirrels inside my skull, and a Bell that shatters any thought of impulse control.
I could write a book on all the ways I’ve learned to manage. I live and die by the apps on my phone—calendars, alarms, timers, reminders. I use my fidget ring to bleed off excess energy. I try not to get too hungry, too thirsty, too tired. I take my feckin’ meds.
And one of the best tricks of all: Exercise.
Sex is the best type of exercise a man can have. My life as a Dom tames the worst of my brain’s misfires. Controlling women in my bed forces me to focus.
Jenn understood that. She was my first sub; we learned the life together. She had a masochistic streak as wide as the Grand Canyon, and our endless experiments locked away the brain squirrels for hours at a time.
When Jenn died, I knew I’d never find another sane woman who would tolerate the things I demand. Not in a so-called loving and mutually beneficial relationship . So I visit Mimi’s girls to get what I need. I pay well and I tip better. I always get consent.
But I never—not once—dreamed I’d be the sort of sick fuck who gets off on playing Daddy.
Daddy. Won’t you help your little girl?
Closing my eyes, I can still see Fiona’s cherry-red lips. I hear the taunting in her voice. She knew exactly what she was doing.
And Christ, was she good at it.
I grab a towel from the rack and start to dry my face. Before I can finish, a phone rings in the other room—a light and airy tone that sounds like the theme for a puppet show.
Fiona’s stirring when I come back from the jacks. “My backpack,” she mutters, and I find it by the foot of the bed. She digs out her phone but then she stares at the screen like she’s forgotten how to answer. When she finally looks at me, her face is stricken. “It’s my uncle.”
“Put it on speaker.”
She obeys, which pulls something tight in my throat.
“Uncle Aran.” Her voice is flat.
“Fiona.”
I haven’t heard him in twenty-five years. Dowd’s a Clan Chief now, his captain’s right-hand man. He’s spent his entire life in the Irish mob, and he’s made it somewhere north of sixty without being taken down by the feds, a competing mob, or fights within his own clan .
I thought about killing him myself a quarter of a century ago. He deserved it, for what he did.
But Aran Dowd is a man who gets his way. He’s got that in common with his niece. Instead of killing Dowd, I left Boston.
Fiona pulls the duvet closer, as if a feckin’ quilt can keep her safe from the shitehawk. But she’s smart enough to hold her tongue. Dowd’s the one who placed the call. He’s the one who wants something.
And sure enough, he finally says, “I understand there was a misunderstanding tonight, at the dún .”
“At my home,” she says. Good girl. She’s not afraid to stake her claim.
“At your father’s home,” Dowd clarifies. “May he rest in peace.”
Fiona doesn’t bother with religious sentiment. “Your men tried to kill me.”
“Like I said,” Dowd replies smoothly. “A misunderstanding. They weren’t expecting you to show up like that. Tonight.”
“To my home ,” she insists.
He ignores her point. “Tonight,” he repeats. “Your father’s wake isn’t until tomorrow.”
“You have no right scheduling my father’s wake.” Fiona’s voice shifts up a couple of notes. I take a step forward, lowering my chin, trying to remind her she’s a feckin’ force.
“So many locals want to show their respect,” Dowd explains. “We’re holding his funeral till Saturday. Leaving time for the Dublin family to fly in.”
“I get to decide that! I’m his d—” she catches herself, just before she says daughter. “Only child,” she says, like that will get her the prize she wants. “I should choose the date.”
“Wait too long and people start plotting. They need to see a King on his throne.” Dowd sounds like he’s teaching catechism to a slow student. But it’s no coincidence he uses king and his . Fiona hears it too .
“No one’s ever pushed out a rightful Old Colony captain,” she warns.
“And they won’t now,” Dowd says smoothly. “Seven o’clock for the wake. Tomorrow night. At the dún .”
“And you can promise we won’t have any more misunderstandings ?” Fiona pushes, clearly trying to salvage some hint of authority.
“Good night, neacht .”
It’s not an answer. Some might say his calling her neacht —niece—is a good sign. Family doesn’t murder family. But I’m inclined to say he’s putting her in her place. Patting her on the head and sending her to bed. Telling her the grown-ups will take care of the Crew.
From the look on Fiona’s face, she agrees with my interpretation. “Asshole,” she breathes, tossing her phone onto the mattress.
The motion pulls the duvet away from her chest. I do my best to ignore the view, focusing instead on the point of her chin. “And what do you intend to do about it?”
“What can I do? Show up for my father’s wake. Once I’m there, I’ll let everyone know in charge.”
She’s fierce. I’ll give her that. “The first thing we can do is get there early. Seven o’clock is arrival time for the public. We’ll be there by five.”
She eyes me steadily. “We?”
“We. You need someone watching your back.”
Plus, once I’m inside the dún , I’ll have a front-row seat to the Old Colony Crew’s infighting. I’ll find out if Dowd has already completed his coup. If he’s pulled his men into line, they can move against the Fishtown Boys.
After all, that’s why my boss gave me leave to make this trip north—to monitor the risk to my adopted clan. Not to fuck a girl young enough to be my daughter.
Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Watching my back. Is that what old men like you call it? ”
There’s a moment when I know I can have her again. All I have to do is tug away the duvet that’s barely covering her lap. I can grab another johnny and pull her ankles to my shoulders and give her another ride she won’t soon forget.
But she didn’t call me Daddy just now. And I’ll take that as a sign that she’s as tired as I am. Worse, likely, because Madden beat the shite out of her just twenty-four hours ago. Ice and arnica and makeup disguise a lot, but sleep is the only thing that will truly heal damage like hers.
I edge sideways around the bed and fight to loosen the blanket and sheet from the mattress. “Play your cards right, Scáthach , and I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning.”
“What does that mean? Ska-ha?”
She pronounces it like an American girl. I climb into bed and make a show of fluffing up my pillow. “Come to bed.”
She huffs in exasperation, but she gets in on her side of the mattress. “Seriously,” she says. “Why are you calling me that?”
“Go to sleep,” I say, because I like being the one in control.
She clicks her tongue as if she’s ten years younger than she is. Rolling over, she does her best to steal both the sheet and the blanket.
I put a quick stop to that. I throw my arm around her and spread my fingers wide across her belly, pulling her spine to my chest. I purposely aim low, avoiding the mottled bruises Madden left across her ribs.
“ Oíche mhaith, ” I say, trusting she has enough Irish to know goodnight.
She shifts her weight, and I catch her wrist before she can land an elbow in my side. I pull her even closer, anchoring my position by arcing my leg over hers.
“Goodnight,” I murmur for good measure, setting my lips against her ear.
She holds herself stiff for a full minute. I think I’ll have to relent because pinning her here does neither of us any good.
But then she exhales, long and low and steady. Her spine transforms from an iron chain to a length of heavy rope. Her hips rock, and she finds a better angle, and she sighs again inside the cage of my body.
I won’t sleep like this. I never do more than doze at night anyway—a hard-won hour here, getting up to check the door and windows, another stolen hour there.
But things are different with Fiona. I lie still so I don’t disturb her. I relax my grip around her belly. I let her take the full weight of my leg. I match my breath to hers.
And I sleep.