Chapter 26
DOMINIC
‘Are you spying on your fiancée?’ Ciaran claps a hand on my shoulder and squints at my phone. The screen shows Aoife in the library, curled up on the leather armchair cradling a mug in one hand and a book in the other. I zoom in to see which one.
Wuthering Heights.
Interesting choice. That book was rammed down our throats before the Leaving Cert.
Does she see herself as Catherine?
I’m no Heathcliff.
No way.
I wouldn’t let the woman I loved marry another man.
Not a hope.
‘Just checking she’s safe,’ I lie.
‘Course you were.’ Ciaran reaches for the glass of whiskey on the bar in front of him.
We’re in Dom’s. I’d rather be at home, drinking Aoife, but unfortunately, some punk has a death wish.
He had the audacity to mouth off about me in my own bar last night, challenging not just my position, but the entire Syndicate’s reign.
Matthew McAllister is a nobody. A jumped up northern wannabie who’s so insignificant, it’s laughable. He has to be working with someone else. No one would be stupid enough to challenge me alone.
But still, he has to be dealt with. I have a reputation to uphold. And it’s been a while since I made an example.
‘How are the wedding plans going?’ Ciaran asks quietly.
‘Everything is under control.’
‘Mama K is fucking beside herself with excitement.’ He cocks his head. ‘She’s going to be devastated when you get divorced.’
‘If we get divorced,’ I correct him.
‘Fuck.’ Ciaran twists to face me. ‘You fucked her, didn’t you?’
I glower at my brother. ‘No, I didn’t. Not that it’s any of your business.’
He stares at me. ‘You did! It’s written all over your face,’ he hisses, slapping the bar.
‘Ciaran,’ I warn him.
Ciaran’s pupils glint. ‘You fucked those tits, didn’t you?
’ He pretends to grope a pair of imaginary breasts in front of him.
‘Tell me. I need to live vicariously through you. I haven’t got laid since that hot lawyer last month.
I swear, it was the hottest sex of my life though.
Man, what she could do with her mouth. And her tits were even bigger than Aoife’s. ’
I glower at him. ‘Careful, brother. I came here to teach someone a lesson tonight. Don’t let that someone be you.’
‘Spoilsport.’ Ciaran huffs, then takes a sip of his drink.
‘So, what’s the story with Kavanagh?’ He glances around the wood panelled bar.
It’s not busy. Not yet. There are a few faces I don’t recognise.
It’s not unusual. We sometimes get a few brave strays wondering in, men who want to work for us, want to break into our circles.
Or simply want to drink in my bar because of my reputation.
But give it another hour and the place will be packed with faces I do recognise.
‘No reports on any other trafficking attempts. He’s probably too consumed looking for Aoife. The stupid bastard put a bounty on her head, fifty measly grand. He deserves to die for that insult alone,’ I spit, taking a sip of my whiskey. It burns as it hits the back of my throat.
‘Oh man.’ Ciaran’s thick dark eyebrows wing up. ‘You like her.’
I scowl. Like doesn’t even begin to cover what I feel for her.
Every time I close my eyes I see those big baby blues, those plump pink lips, and don’t get me started on those killer curves.
But it’s not just that. It’s the way she looks at me.
Like I’m not an entirely lost cause. Like she sees me.
The real me, beneath the mask, and she wants me.
But will she still want me when she sees the depth of my darkness?
The true dominant?
I don’t know.
And it terrifies me.
I want so much more than just her body. I want her heart too.
I’ve never wanted to date a woman in my life. Fuck them? Yes. Tie them up and tease them until they beg me to let them come. Absofuckinglutely. But dating one was a definite no.
Until her.
I’ve spent every night this week, and every morning with my fingers or mouth on Aoife’s pussy, but I still haven’t fucked her. And I won’t. Not until we’re married. She might think she’s ready, but truthfully, I’m not sure I am. Because when I do, it’ll change everything.
I already know when I give myself to her, I’ll be giving her more than just my body.
I’ll be giving her my soul.
And as far as I know, she still has every intention of walking away from me next year. As a self-confessed control freak, the prospect is more terrifying than anything or anyone I’ve ever faced on the street.
‘She’s like no one I ever met before,’ I admit quietly.
‘In what way?’ Ciaran leans forward, staring at me like I’ve got two heads.
‘She’s… good. She’s kind. Thoughtful. Moralistic.’ I shake my head. ‘She’s sexy as hell, but the sexiest thing about her? She has no idea.’
The pub door swings open and McAllister strides in. His bright eyes scan the bar, then dim as they meet mine.
He strides directly towards us, an insult in itself. ‘You two old fuckers should retire.’
I reach for my whiskey and sip it slowly.
The anticipation of violence is a bit like the anticipation of sex.
The air shifts. The tension is palpable.
You’re waiting for someone to make the first move.
The first touch. The first strike. Then someone finally snaps.
And once it starts… there’s no stopping it.
No pulling back. No pretending it was anything less than inevitable.
Just instinct. Hunger. Release.
And the certainty that nothing will ever quite be the same.
I drain my drink, put the glass on the bar and stand slowly. Ciaran rises, along with three faces I don’t recognise from across the room.
McAllister came to challenge me, but apparently he wasn’t stupid enough to do it alone. ‘I’ll retire when someone puts me in a box. But that won’t be you.’
He smirks, though I catch the flicker of fear in his eyes. It’s one thing to challenge a beast. It’s entirely another to look into its eyes and see the souls of all of those who’ve tried before.
And Mcallister has just realised it.
He lunges first. They always do. His fist swings wide—sloppy, eager. I step into it, letting it glance off my shoulder as my own fist drives straight into his ribs. Hard. Precise. I feel the crack beneath my knuckles and the air leave his lungs in a strangled gasp.
The bar erupts. Chairs scrape. Glass shatters. Ciaran laughs—actually fucking laughs—as he launches himself at one of the others.
McAllister staggers back, wheezing, but I don’t give him a second to recover. I grab the front of his shirt, slam him back against the nearest table hard enough to splinter wood, and drive my fist into his face.
Once.
Twice.
Blood sprays. His. Not mine.
‘You,’ I snarl, leaning in close, my grip tightening on his collar, ‘walk into my bar—’
Another punch. His head snaps to the side. ‘—say my name—’Again. My knuckles split this time. I feel it. Welcome it even. ‘—and think you walk out?’
I slam him down onto the table. It collapses beneath his weight with a crack, sending him crashing to the floor.
One of his men comes at me from the side.
I turn just in time to catch his wrist, twist—hard—and drive my elbow into his throat.
He drops instantly, choking, clawing at his neck.
The third hesitates. Smartest one of the lot, but that doesn’t save him.
Ciaran has him by the collar before he can take a step back, headbutting him with a sickening crack before tossing him aside like he weighs nothing.
I look back down at McAllister. He’s trying to crawl. Pathetic. I plant my foot on his chest and shove him flat on his back, crouching slowly so he has no choice but to look at me. Blood pools beneath his head, his face already swelling beyond recognition.
‘Fuck off back to the hole you crawled out of,’ I say quietly, almost conversationally. ‘And tell whoever you’re working for I send my regards.’
His lips move, but nothing coherent comes out. I lean closer. My fist connects with his jaw one final time. This one isn’t controlled. This one is personal. His body goes slack.
Silence falls throughout the bar—heavy and absolute.
I straighten slowly, flexing my hand. Blood drips from my knuckles, dark and steady, hitting the floor in quiet, rhythmic taps.
No one moves. No one speaks. I glance around the room, meeting every eye in turn. ‘Anyone else?’
Not a single fucking person steps forward. I grab a cloth from the bar, wrap it loosely around my hand, and head for the door.
I’ve made my point.
Now I want to go home.