36. Finn
Finn
Fight Or Flight?
Saoirse took her sweet time falling asleep last night. So did I.
It wasn’t lost on me that it was our first night sleeping together as a couple—and that I had to kidnap her to get it.
It’s still a win though. At least she didn’t search the kitchen drawers for sharp knives. Not that I own any.
All my meals come ready prepped. The sharpest item in the drawer is a plastic fork.
She didn’t creep upstairs to tinker with the door handle either.
Smart girl. She knows the steps have lasers to detect comings and goings.
If I want to know how she slept I’ll hit rewind on the CCTV footage. There are cameras hidden in all the light fixtures. Not because I’m a pervert—because I don’t leave anything to chance.
Whenever I woke during the night, I would find her lying sideways and staring at me. Exhausted, I didn’t engage her, just hooked my arm around her waist and pulled her close for a spoon.
But I would wake later on and she’d be back at it again, staring at me while I slept.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. Feels like she’s plotting something.
I should cement my position as a savior in her mind today. She must realize there’s nowhere for her to run except into my arms.
She comes out of the shower, wearing a fresh tee-shirt, and looks around. There’s a shudder before she hangs her head.
“Ugh.” She shakes her head. “How can you live here?”
It’s not a question. I refuse to answer anyway. Every predator needs a lair.
Mine just happens to be a mess.
I’m sitting at the breakfast bar eating the oats I soaked in almond milk overnight and watching GAA on the flatscreen. I made Saoirse a bowl too.
I hook my foot around the stool leg and pull it away from the ledge. “Sit.”
Sliding the bowl over to her, I jerk my head to the stove top. “There’s tea.”
She tries clambering to the top of the stool standing on tiptoes, but gives up. “I usually have fruit and yogurt for breakfast, you know, because I’m not used to eating concrete.”
If she’s expecting to be greeted by a poetical Irish lover this morning, she’s way off the mark. I’m always grumpy when I’m training.
No coffee turns me into a fucking bear.
“It’s porridge, for feck’s sake. No need to be such a princess. There’s no one around for you to impress.”
She looks startled, but I haven’t even gotten going yet. “And if it’s concrete you’re wanting, why don’t you go get it from one of the poxy luxury condos you razed good people’s houses down to build.”
That ought to smack her down a few rungs.
She’s already missing the man I pretended to be last night. And now she’ll do anything to get him back.
I’m going to ice her out until she agrees with me that white is black. There’ll be no gray tones in this relationship.
She goes to the stove and sparks up the kettle. “Can I make you a cup?”
A grunt. “Nah. I’ve put almond milk in my concrete.”
She spins around, ready to confront me. “No is all you had to say.”
I won’t stop until she sees her transgressions against us.
“And all those poor souls who can’t afford to buy a house in Brooklyn, Saoirse? It’s a bit too late for them to say no, for them to complain that your profit margins are insane, right?”
She keeps looking at the kettle as if doing that will make it boil faster.
“It’s called progress, Finn. You should try it sometime, like, with your decor, for example.”
I push my empty bowl away and grab the key fob. “Come on. I’m taking you back where you belong.”
When she spins around, her mouth is an oh. “What?!”
I head for the stairs. “Yeah. You belong in Connemara with those money-grubbing grandparents of yours. The ones who sold your dear departed mam to the highest bidder.”
She doesn’t budge. “I’m not money-grubbing!”
Sucking air through my teeth is the only reply she gets. “Tsk. Come on. Grab your kit.”
She stays put. “What about Feargal?”
Finally, she’s thinking about someone other than herself.
“He’ll be grand. I’ll send him a text. It’s your freedom I’m giving you, Saoirse Byrne. Shake a leg.”
I see her running the facts through her head.
Yet another night spent in her lover’s arms. Has that image of The Ghost dropped into Maguire’s inbox yet? Or maybe that nosy bint Maureen found another one of her secrets.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I never gave it much thought about pricing the working class out of the housing market.”
I launch my lecture mode. “You’ve changed since you got married, Saoirse. Did having money change you? Or was it Maguire?”
She sips tea while observing me over the brim.
“I was treated like a slave at Patrick’s house, Finn. We had no outside help. No luxuries. No tech.”
I stand down and put the fob on the counter. “That’s normal. If you chose to see it as a hardship then that’s on you. You let Maguire’s decadent lifestyle change you, mo chroí.”
She calls out when I go back up the stairs. “Hey! I said I’m sorry!”
“Yeah. I’m off to train.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Take me with you.”
That was my plan all along. “Sure. It’s about time you got to see how I earn a living.”
Saoirse ducks into the closet, comes out wearing my board shorts with the drawstrings tightened around her waist. The tee-shirt is tucked in. Her fancy high heels on her feet.
“You look grand.”
She blushes. “No, I look like a sideshow clown, but I’m dying to see what it is you do that makes you so much money.”
I take her hand, lead her upstairs, push the door open. “I make so much money?”
She nods. “You paid over market price for the condo in my complex, Finn. That’s a lot of gees.”
I drop her hand. “Maguire might let you talk like a gangster, Saoirse, but I don’t.”
Daggers shoot out of her eyes, but it’s too dark in the warehouse for anyone else to see. “I don’t talk gangster!”
I ignore her. She’s got to get used to me building her up, but it’s only so I can knock her back down. Like Jenga.
A few of the soldiers are already here. I want them to see that Saoirse is with me.
She’s part of my destiny; always has been. Maguire is just a glitch in my long-term goal.
I don’t let her hang back. “Come and greet the lads.”
She does that thing when a woman is embarrassed about what she’s wearing. Shakes her head, looks at her feet, and points at her clothes.
I wait. We all do. She must come to me.
I’m impressed when she doesn’t apologize for what she’s wearing. I don’t know how she does it, but she walks well in those shoes.
“Hey, lads. Is it a good morning?” No one answers. All she gets is nods.
They acknowledge her, but it’s for my sake, not hers.
The door opens to let in Iain and a dozen more men. She answers the question herself when she sees sunshine outside. “I guess it is a good morning.”
Mickey comes in with Shirley. I hear Saoirse sigh with relief to see another woman.
Shirley bustles over, shopping bags hanging over her arms. “Nice to see the two of you have sorted it out. I brought you some clothes, Saoirse. Let’s go downstairs so you can go through the ones you like.”
I watch her go. She’s polite, but not docile. Pulling out my phone, I flick a message to Shirley.
Make sure she eats breakfast. Offer to get her whatever she wants. Don’t tidy up for her.
The message comes back. I brought the food she prefers like you asked. And if you think I’m going to clean this pig sty for you, Boss, you’ve got windmills in your head.
Beckoning Kentigern over, I tell him to keep an eye on the door while I’m training.
Mickey frowns. “Are you done?” He mutters under his breath. “Save your concentration for your opponents, son.”
I start jumping rope. “That’s where you’re wrong, old man. She is my opponent.”
It feels good training, knowing that she’s only a few yards away from where I’m standing.
There’s no way out. Nowhere to run and hide.
I’m your fucking Alpha and your Omega, Saoirse Byrne. Get used to it.
I’ve got about ten lads training with me today. Cheaper than a gym membership, but it’s good for a boy to learn how to handle himself.
We fight in here, not out there.
I’m halfway through training and Kenty catches my eye. Saoirse is back out.
Her clown outfit’s gone. She’s wearing tight black leggings under my tee-shirt, with big-ass sneakers on her feet, the ones with two-inch stacked soles—to make her taller, I suppose.
The long black hair has been pulled off her face and fixed in a pony tail at the top of her head. I make a note of how she dressed to suit her environment.
That scores her some points. She’s watching me punch the bag when I check. But the next time I check, her eyes have glazed over with boredom.
I don’t clock any deception. She’s fed up with what I’m offering her for entertainment.
I move onto the heavy bag, and she follows.
“Is this all you do? Workout?”
I’m too focused to bother with words, so I nod.
“Can I go see what those guys at the table are doing?”
The table is where bets are laid and paid out. Morag’s husband, Joe, is manning the table today, but I doubt that Saoirse would know him.
When I open my mouth to reply, sweat drips into it. I spit over my shoulder, away from her.
“Sure.”
She wanders off, dawdling as she walks around the octagon.
It’s not too long before I see she’s gone back downstairs.
Only when training has finished do Kenty and Joe come over.
“Saoirse asked me if I knew Morag. And whether I might be able to get a message to her.” Joe comes right out and tells me.
Sneaky. “How did she clock you as Morag’s husband?”
“She noticed I have the same ink on my left hand. The wife and I have matching tatts. I told her I knew Morag well. She begged me to tell Morag that she’s been taken… and that she’s here.”
Like I said, sneaky. And all that time she looked bored, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Downstairs, I find her munching an apple. She looks like an angel. A beautiful, sneaky angel.
As sweaty as I am, I take her in my arms. There’s a slight wrinkling of her nose, but she’s too aware of my bare chest to be put off by me physically.
“Please tell me you’re finished,” she smiles and manages to hug back. “That’s way too much testosterone for me that early in the morning.”
I can tell she’s warming to the way I look. Her finger traces down my chest. “What have you got going for the rest of the day, you big stud…?”
I push her away. “I’ve got a fight tomorrow night, darlin’. Don’t try tempt me out of the zone.”
She gapes. “What does that mean? No sex?”
I give her the nod and head for the shower.
Her voice follows me. “But your eye… where I hit you. It’s half-closed and swollen. You can’t fight like that!”
Sticking my head around the door, I ask politely. “What’s the alternative to a fight? Flight?”
“Yes! Take a day off!” Coming into the shower room, she watches the water slicking the sweat off me. “Have a ‘me’ day, Finn. An ‘us’ day.”
All that testosterone got her heated. “We’ve got seventeen million riding on this fight, sweetheart. I can’t take a day off from that kind of prize money.”
She’ll be there to watch me fight. I want her to imprint on my victory as part of her learning process.
I need her to care about the same outcomes as me. That’s why I deliberately plan on losing during the first ten minutes of my fight. Inside the octagon, ten minutes can feel like a lifetime.
It’s a risky move, but I think I can do it. She must see me as invincible in the end.
Saoirse squeaks. “Seven… teen million?! How about I sell you more condos?”