Chapter 31
31
SAMANTHA
B raiden’s face is grimmer than I’ve ever seen it when he ends his call with the person he calls boss. “I’m sorry,” he says to me. “I need to take care of some business.”
Without further explanation, he yanks open the nursery door, only to come up short when he sees the ruin in the hallway. The carpet is soaked. The door to his office is reduced to kindling. The entire corridor stinks of smoke.
“Fairfax!” Braiden hollers.
The elfin man appears on the staircase within seconds.
“I need a suite at the Rittenhouse,” Braiden says. “And Eoghan to drive us there.”
“Certainly,” Fairfax says, as if he has nothing else to manage in the wake of a house fire. “How many bedrooms for the suite? And how many nights?”
“One bedroom. Three nights. I’ll be in business meetings. Have my clothes sent over.”
Fairfax takes out his phone and begins to make the arrangements. Braiden says to me, “Can you pack a bag, with that shoulder?”
I nod.
“Go on then. Make sure you take everything you need. You won’t be leaving the room once we’re there.”
I want to argue. I want to ask him to slow down. I want to say he can’t just expect me to drop everything on his say-so.
But the truth of the matter is, Braiden can expect me to do his bidding. I have, ever since he put his ring on my finger.
We both go to our bedroom. I find a duffel bag in the closet and start to pack while he makes a series of phone calls.
He can’t reach Madden, but he leaves a scorching message. He calls Liam, my driver and bodyguard, ordering him to meet us at the Rittenhouse in an hour with the keys to the suite Fairfax is arranging. He tries Madden again and leaves another pointed voicemail. He tells someone named Patrick to get to the hotel as well and to bring six of his best men. When Madden doesn’t pick up on Braiden’s third try, I think the phone may end up shattered.
Instead, Braiden settles for jamming it in his pocket and saying to me, “You’re done?”
“I think so.”
He grips the handle of the duffel and says, “Let’s go.”
We’re halfway to downtown Philadelphia before I find the nerve to ask, “You’re just leaving Aiofe in that house? With Grace?”
“And Fairfax. And the rest of the Thornfield staff.” And then, “Grace has taken care of her since she was three years old.”
I want to ask how often Grace has set the house on fire during those seven years, but I don’t dare. Instead, I watch the lights go by and try to piece together what’s happening, why we’re on the run.
From Braiden’s half of the conversation, I know he’s heading toward a summit. I assume it’s with Russo. And I assume they’re meeting Sunday night, if Braiden intends us to stay in our suite for three nights.
He tried to change the timing. He didn’t want to meet on Sunday. That must be because of the shipment he has coming into the port, the drugs Russo is after.
I recognize the flutter in my chest as hope. Maybe, just maybe , if Russo is in on this summit, he won’t push for the information he’s demanded from me. He’ll be too busy to call my office cell, checking in on the data he ordered me to steal. He’ll forget his threat to release his pictures from That Night.
And maybe leprechauns are real, too.
When we arrive at the Rittenhouse, Liam is waiting outside the hotel. I expect Braiden to hand him my bag, but he doesn’t. It’s only as we cross the lobby to the elevators that I realize Liam needs to keep his hands free—bodyguard rule number one.
Braiden studies the lobby with a commander’s cool precision. I see him pick out four of his men; they exchange tight nods. I wonder if one of them is the summoned Patrick. Apparently not—fifteen minutes remain before Braiden’s one-hour deadline, and no one falls in line behind us.
Liam calls the elevator and when it arrives, he gestures for Braiden and me to enter. A mother dashes up with her little girl, calling out, “Can you hold that please?” But Liam shakes his head and tells her she’ll have to take the next one. He stands in the center of the closing doors, unmoved by the mother’s exasperated sigh.
Our suite is on the third floor, through a locked door and down a private hallway. Liam takes up a position in that corridor after keying us into our rooms.
Braiden wastes no time leading the way to the bedroom. “My men and I will meet out there,” he says, jutting his chin toward the luxurious table and chairs, along with the high-end kitchenette and its modern appliances. “You’ll stay here. Safe.”
It doesn’t feel safe. Nothing about today feels safe—from my aching shoulder to the fire in the hallway to the phone call that turned my husband into a calculating machine.
I know I should add to Braiden’s burden, now, before it’s too late. I should tell him about Russo’s demands, about the spying I’ve been blackmailed into. I should warn him that Russo wants to use me to steal the drug shipment.
But I won’t.
Because I’m not giving in to Russo.
I’m not sure when I made up my mind. Maybe it was when Braiden insisted I stay in our bed, even though I couldn’t possibly give him the type of sex he requires. Maybe when he fed me at breakfast this morning, bite by tender bite. Maybe when he took that devastating call from the man he’s forced to call boss.
Whenever I made my decision, I’m positive now. I won’t betray my husband.
So Russo will disclose the truth about That Night.
I’ve dreaded this moment for eleven years. The entire world is about to learn the terrible thing I did. I’m forty-eight hours away from losing the life I’ve built for myself, the job I love, and probably—likely—my marriage.
But I haven’t lost it yet.
In fact, I still have one option to make things better. I can siphon off some of the tension that radiates from Braiden like the glow of uranium.
I cross the room to his side. I close the door between this bedroom and the rest of the suite. I look directly in my husband’s eyes and say, “Before you go…”
A greedy hunger lights his face. But he says, “I’ve work to do.”
“You have to wait for Patrick, right? And for Madden too?”
He shrugs, which I take as his agreement.
I reach for the buckle on his belt. “So we have time.”
His fingers close over mine, firm and forbidding. “Your shoulder,” he says, as if I might have forgotten my bandages.
“What I’m thinking of won’t hurt my shoulder at all.” I sink to my knees in front of him.
“Samantha,” he groans.
I don’t have my collar. I’m not required to follow his commands. He can’t accuse me of topping from the bottom, of violating even one of his dark rules.
So I unzip his pants. I slip my hand through the slit of his silk boxers. I find the hot, heavy length of him, and I squeeze.
“Sweet Christ,” he moans as I run my thumb from his root to his tip.
Those words of raw need spark something deep inside me. I make short work of his belt, of his pants, of the boxers that pool at his ankles like abandoned giftwrap on Christmas morning.
I hold his balls with my good hand, squeezing just enough to make his breath catch. I taste his beautiful cock, tracing one thick vein with my tongue. I purse my lips and cover his head, sucking off a generous bead of precum.
He swells with the attention, and I know he’s long enough, thick enough that I’ll end up gagging. But I can’t keep from stretching my lips over him. I slide down his length, licking, teasing, a fire rising inside me as his hands grip my hair.
I can’t control his boss. I can’t run his summit for him. God knows I can’t guarantee the Sunday shipment at the port.
But I can take Braiden deep enough that my eyes begin to water. I can look up at him through wet eyelashes when his cock fills my throat. I can tongue the length of him as I rock back on my heels, tightening my lips, moving faster, stroking harder.
He calls me his piscín . He tells me I’m beautiful. He says that I’m the one he needs, only me, always me. And when he groans that he’s about to come, I find a way to manage one more inch.
His spray is hot against the back of my throat. I swallow first by reflex and then with greed. I want every drop he can give me, every last trembling spurt.
When he finally stops pulsing in my mouth, I ease back, letting him go free. I wipe my mouth with the back of my good hand. I look up at him, as satisfied as a piscín who’s downed a bowl of cream.
This time, I let his hand slip beneath my uninjured elbow. I accept his help in standing. I allow his fingers to tighten on my waist and his lips to crush against mine.
He’s fierce at the same time that he’s cautious. There’s a desperation in his kiss, a drive, a need, but he doesn’t fold his arms around me. He doesn’t trap my wounded shoulder. He doesn’t hurt me, even though that would be so easy to do.
He finally pulls back enough to press his lips to my temple, to the snarl of scars I’ll never leave behind. His grip loosens on my hips.
I hear men’s voices from the outside room, and I wonder how long they’ve been there. I step back so Braiden can pull up his shorts and pants, can fasten the buckle on his belt.
He settles his thumb against my lips and closes his eyes, whispering, “ Mo chailín maith .”
I still don’t know the translation, but I understand the meaning. I fold my arms around myself as he opens the door and goes to war.