Chapter 4
FOUR
Bailey’s skin is slippery from the water and soft beneath my touch as I let my hands explore her lush curves. This woman’s body is built for sex. Built to be worshipped. The top of her head barely reaching my shoulders.
I reach behind her, noting the slight flinch when I lean in and grab a bottle of shampoo. She will come to learn that, although I will punish her, I will never hurt her or beat her. That isn’t something my family stands for.
Turning the bottle upside down, I empty some into my palm before massaging the lather into her hair and scalp.
She is stiff beneath my ministrations, her arms tight against her chest, muscles clenched.
Once I am sure her hair is clean and vomit-free, I dip her head beneath the stream of water until it is completely rinsed and start on the body wash.
“You’re so fucking soft,” I whisper, once again exploring her body, massaging soap onto her shoulders and arms. Her breasts are next, and I take my time, gently kneading each one, rubbing my thumbs over her petal-pink nipples until they are standing at attention.
Bailey hasn’t said a word, but her breathing picks up, her body subtly shifting as I toy with her. I let one hand continue working her breasts while I slide the other between her legs.
“Open for me, mo fraochún beag.”
She resists at first, clenching her legs together tightly. Sighing, I pinch her inner thigh. A small squeal of surprise falls from her beautiful lips as she tightens her thighs against my intrusion.
“Remember, Bailey,” I remind her as I cup her sex. She lets out a soft moan. I doubt she even realizes what she’s done. “Good girls get rewarded. So open your legs.”
A beat hangs in the air between us. The conflict is written across her face, plain as day. This woman may be one of the city’s best reporters, but she hangs her emotions out to dry for everyone to see. With a small sigh, she parts her legs willingly.
Licking my lips, I stare down between us. She has a soft triangular patch of hair leading down to the cleft of her pussy, which is neatly shaven. Just how my brother and I like it. Neither Seamus nor I subscribe to a completely shaven snatch. Makes a woman’s pussy look like a naked mole rat.
Running my hands over her pussy, I gently clean her before caressing them across her lush, pert ass.
God. The things this woman does to me without knowing.
I was prepared to do my duty when I saw her in the alleyway. She is a witness. A loose end. We rarely take out women, but a reporter is different. They are sharks in the water, and many of them can’t be easily threatened or bribed.
Then she fought back. The second she took a swing at me, I was a goner. My cock had never been harder.
I’ve fucked plenty of women, but it was always more for release than anything else. I never held any type of connection with them, and I rarely fuck a woman more than once. I dip my fingers in the crease of Bailey’s ass. She tenses before her body relaxes slightly.
“Good girl,” I praise her as I slip a finger into her tight hole. The beautiful girl whimpers but makes no attempt to stop me or push me away as I plunge my finger slowly in and out.
Damn, she is tight. She will need to be trained before we can stick our cocks in her ass. It is a tight fit with just one finger.
“Now,” I spin her around until her breasts are pressed against the heated tile wall, ass rubbing against my hardened member, “come for me, a mhuirnín.”
Pressing hard against her cunt, I concentrate on her swollen nub as I ground my rock-hard erection against her luscious cheeks. Soon she is pushing back against me, grinding her pussy onto my fingers, her breaths coming in short, panting gasps as she takes her pleasure unabashedly.
Bailey sobs when I pinch her clit between my fingers, her entire body shuddering as she comes. She goes limp in my arms. I’m not far behind, my cum exploding against her ass.
Fuck. She is beautiful when she orgasms, and she makes the most delicious fucking sounds. Small whimpers and little mewls.
Like a kitten.
A kitten who needs a collar.
Keeping one arm around her for support, I rinse us both off before reaching around to shut the water off and grabbing a towel that hangs over the shower door. With quick, thorough strokes, I rub her down. She doesn’t protest; her eyes barely open as she struggles to stay awake.
I know this won’t last forever. She’s docile now, but come later, I have no doubt our little kitten will show her claws.
A slight tinge of regret streaks through my conscience at having taken her like that so soon.
Especially knowing she is partially inebriated, but there is no going back now. Bailey needs to learn she is mine.
And Seamus’s.
She belongs to us, whether she likes it or not.
It is the only way we will be able to keep her alive.
Letting out a long sigh, I help Bailey into my bed, drawing the covers over her naked body. There are plenty of clothes—either mine or Seamus’s—to dress her in but having her naked when she first wakes will serve as a reminder for her.
She’s not the one in charge here.
That, and what sane man wouldn’t want a woman like her running around his room naked and at his disposal?
Tilting my head, I take a moment to study her, my eyes roaming over her form and taking her in. Touch is a completely different sense from sight. Each sense tells me something different about her. My touch tells me how soft she is. How pliable.
Her voice is gentle when forced into submission, but those fiery moments deliver a delicious edge.
She isn’t used to being told what to do.
Bailey is no doubt used to being the one in control, but that doesn’t stop her body from sensing an apex predator.
It wants her to submit to me; it’s her mind that is holding her back.
That will soon change.
Her long raven hair spreads out over my pillow in stark contrast to the white linen that lies beneath. Quietly, I sit in the wingback chair just a few feet from the bed and tug her purse into my lap. Some of the men have brought up the belongings she had in her car.
She’d been running from something. Or someone.
Bailey wasn’t lying when she stated her car had broken down in the parking lot. A quick once-over from Patrick, our resident mechanic, confirmed that. One of her spark plugs was dirty and split. It was years older than the practically new ones installed around it.
Patrick didn’t need to confirm what I already guessed.
Someone wanted her to break down.
But why?
Grabbing my phone, I snap a quick photo of her driver’s license before sending it off to Bridgett, our tech guru and personal hacker. I need more information on the raven-haired siren. Something other than what I know about her as a reporter.
A reporter… Cac.
I wonder how Father is taking the news that we’ve kidnapped one of the city’s most popular investigative journalists. Jaysus, he is going to kill us.
Groaning a sigh, I set those thoughts aside as I dig further into her belongings.
There isn’t much. A recorder that belongs to the worst side of the nineties.
It has a cassette tape and everything. Shit, where did she even get this relic?
Better yet, why would she use this piece of shit when digital ones are readily available? Not to mention phones.
I’ll listen to it later when I’m not worried about waking her.
Gum. Breath mints. An empty bag of Sour Patch Kids. A few stray pens. Her ID badge. Nothing incriminating and nothing that tells me why she was at the club.
I can’t dismiss the idea that she was the one to plant the faulty spark plug to cement her story and make us believe she was the victim.
Bingo.
Her cell phone is tucked at the bottom of her purse, beneath all the crap, and it isn’t locked. What the fuck? For a reporter, she is really fucking stupid. Who doesn’t lock their phone?
She has a slew of missed calls. Jaysus, there are nearly sixty. Most of them from a number labeled Stepcunt, while the rest come from one she labeled CHEATER, in large capital letters with a puke face emoji.
Cute.
Opening her messages, I sneak a peek at some of them. There are a few from the stepcunt asking about where she is and telling her she needs to talk to Drew.
Stepcunt:
You need to come home. Drew said you walked out with all of your things. Where are you planning on going? You two need to figure this out. We can’t let your premarital spat ruin your father’s plans.
Bailey never answers.
Stepcunt:
Bailey Elizabeth Crowe, I am not kidding. Men cheat. Get over it and get your ass back home before I involve your father in this.
Crowe? That isn’t the last name she lists on her driver’s license.
Why does that name sound familiar?
Shaking my head, I focus back on the text messages.
None of which Bailey responds to. There is a whole host more of them from her stepmother, mostly dragging on about how she can’t let this ruin everything her father has worked for and how she’ll regret leaving Drew, the one I assume is labeled cheater in her contacts.
Damn, I thought my mother was a frigid bitch.
The two of them could be best friends. Both worried about social standings and how things affect the family image, not caring about how the family itself is affected.
Not that we have much of an image. It isn’t a secret that my father runs the Irish Mafia.
Not even from the police, who we have in our back pockets. Most of them, anyway. There are always a few who think they can beat the system of corruption we have going. It never works.
It never will.
We run this city just as much as Dashkov and Romano, just with less pomp and circumstance.
They call us rats because we keep to the shadows. Hidden from prying eyes. We have more people than people think we do. More control than they can imagine.
The Wards have the shipping port.
The Romanos have several billion-dollar hotels.
Dashkov has his fancy security corporations.
Businesses like that are easy targets. They are out in the open and everyone knows of them.
It makes them stand out. It’s only a matter of time before someone somewhere gets curious.
The FBI. IRS. DEA. You name it. There is always some gung-ho newbie agent desperate to prove themselves and willing to go the extra mile.
All it takes is one small lead.
One minor mistake.
One very good reporter, like Bailey.
Dammit. We are risking everything by bringing her here. We should have killed her.
But…
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, bringing it to my ear without bothering to look at the number. There is only one person it will be at this hour.
“Tell me you got something for me, Bridg.”
The woman on the other end of the line scoffs. “Of course I got something for you. Who do you think I am?” Her playful tone makes me smile. “The question is whether you are going to like what I give you.”
I groan internally. This isn’t going to be good. I can feel it.
“Hit me with it.”
“There is something off about this girl,” Bridgett starts. “The name on her driver’s license is accurate as far as I can tell, but she isn’t just a fucking reporter.”
“What do you mean?” I don’t need more trouble at my doorstep. There is enough shit piled on as it is.
“She is the adopted daughter of Senator Crowe.”
Well, shit.
“Jaysus.”
Things just became ten times worse.
Not only is she a reporter, but she is a senator’s daughter as well. A senator who has been on our ass for years and who is responsible for a lot of spilled Irish blood.
“What else can you tell me about her?”
Bridgett sighs. “She graduated from high school at sixteen and college at nineteen. Started her reporting career at the Seattle Times upon graduation, where she was promoted to investigative journalist two years later.”
Bridgett snorts. “Yeah, somebody was greasing her career,” she interjects before continuing. “Umm… let’s see. No other address for her on file except the one on her license, but her car is registered to a Drew Knight, son of—”
“Magnus Knight,” I curse under my breath as I quietly walk out of the bedroom. I don’t want to risk waking Bailey. “Fuck.”
“Who is Magnus Knight?” Bridgett asks curiously.
“Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee.”
Bridgett hums. “That clears things up a bit,” she admits. “Drew Knight is the CEO and founder of Knightman Security. Private armed forces and security here in Seattle.”
“That’s not good,” I bite out as I make my way toward the elevator.
“Here’s the other thing,” Bridgett edges nervously. “According to every news story, Bailey was adopted at the age of three from Seattle Memorial.”
“Okay…” I fail to see where this is going.
“There aren’t any records of her adoption in the system.”
“So?” I shrug. “That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been a private adoption.”
“That’s possible,” she admits. “But something just isn’t adding up with that.”
“Then check into it and get back to me.” I hang up the phone without bothering to say goodbye.
Dammit, this day is turning out to be more fucking stressful than I thought it would be. Not only do we have current issues with some of the local MC gangs trying to take our shipments, but now we have Bailey to deal with.
Her father’s the goddamn senator. I didn’t see that coming. She isn’t a socialite like her sister, who is seen day in and out in the tabloids, sporting some new designer dress on the runway and out with a new beau every week.
Bailey has been kept in the shadows. Hidden.
So then why is her marriage to Drew so important to her father and Magnus Knight? Bailey doesn’t even carry the same last name as the senator. Dalia Crowe would make a better match. I run a hand through my hair as I step off the elevator and into the back hallway of the bar.
Shit is going to hit the fan soon if we don’t figure out what we are going to do with the minx upstairs.
I know one thing for certain, though.
My father is going to kill me.