Chapter 16
LIAM
I look like I’ve done ten rounds with the night.
Every muscle in my body is sore, I have a swollen cheekbone and a bruised jaw, and my knuckles are covered in blood and scrapes.
I’m getting too old for this shit, but a night at the underground boxing ring seemed like a good idea to take my mind off my hot little prisoner.
Fixed my fucking hard-on anyway, for now at least.
She’s got to me. Big time. Even admitting that to myself is painful. I thought my hate would carry me through, that my anger would keep the fires of vengeance burning.
I was wrong.
I fucking despise being wrong.
The house is quiet when I trudge inside at eleven thirty on Saturday morning, and I have every intention of heading straight to bed and sleeping for twenty-four hours straight. Until I hear it. A sound I haven’t heard in five long years.
Rowan’s laugh.
The pain from all the punches I took last night pale when compared to what her laugh does to me. My lungs flatten, my chest caving in. I’d given up hope of ever hearing that sound again, yet here it is. In my house.
Who the fuck is she laughing with?
I follow the sound to the living room. A roaring fire burns in the grate, Titan is curled up on the rug, soaking up the heat—and Darragh is sitting on the couch with Rowan, and they’re both laughing.
My blood heats to boiling point in a millisecond. “What the fuck is going on?”
Rowan jumps out of her skin, the smile she wore for my brother disappearing faster than a blown-out candle, and the color in her cheeks drains away. Darragh doesn’t move, and he’s still got that soppy grin on his stupid fucking face.
Oh no. Fuck no, brother. She is not yours to take. She’s fucking mine. She’s always been mine.
“I’m getting to know our houseguest. And what the fuck happened to your face?”
“She’s not a houseguest.” I grit out the words through a clenched jaw and jab a finger at the open doorway. “Get back to your room.”
Rowan half gets up off the couch before Darragh reaches over and puts a hand on her. He puts a fucking hand on my woman. “Stay where you are.” Instead, he stands in front of me, legs spread, shoulders back. Readying himself to duck an inevitable punch.
It comes, and he ducks. Rowan screams. I throw another punch and another, but my arms are aching from doing this all fucking night, and Darragh easily avoids my half-arsed attempts to knock him out.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Patrick gets between us both, hands braced on our chests, keeping us apart. “I’m trying to run a fucking business in the middle of a fucking playground. Knock it off. Both of ye.”
“He fucking started it.” Okay, not my best comeback, but I’m knackered and not thinking straight. All I can see is Darragh touching Rowan.
“What are you, ten? I don’t know what started this, and I don’t want to fucking know. For Christ’s sake, go and cool off. Preferably somewhere that isn’t here.”
Rowan’s got her knees curled up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them, and she’s huddled in the farthest corner of the couch like a terrified puppy waiting for its master to land a blow. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and her bottom lip trembles.
I turn away from Patrick and pin Darragh with a glare that makes my enemies piss their pants. “Let her out of her room again without my permission, and I will put you on your arse. Touch her again, and I’ll cut off your hand.”
Unfortunately for me, Darragh isn’t one of my enemies, and he knows me all too well. His reaction to my threats is to throw back his head and laugh.
“Called it.” He winks at me, and my blood turns up to boiling point. Bastard. I fucking hate him. “You’re blindingly obvious, Liam. Need to work on that poker face.”
Okay, that’s it. I can’t take this shit.
I’m not in the right frame of mind to deal with his humor at my expense in a calm and logical manner.
I flip him off and storm from the room, stomp down the hallway, and slam the front door behind me.
I’m in desperate need of sleep, but if I stay in that house for another second, I’m going to do something I regret.
Either stab my brother in the neck or pin Rowan down and fuck her memory back into her.
The car is still warm when I throw myself into the driver’s seat, fire up the engine, and spray stones up at the house as I floor the accelerator. I don’t know where I’m going other than I know I can’t be here.
In less than a week, Rowan fucking Byrne has turned me from a madman known for his iciness and control to this runaway train with no brakes who’s burning through every boundary without giving a shit about the consequences.
And it’s not even her fault. It’s mine. I never should’ve approached her in that pub.
If I’d had my head screwed on right, I’d have left, taken some time to come up with a proper, well-thought-through plan, and then executed it.
Now, I’m backed into a corner and all the exits lead to hell.
I drive around aimlessly for a while. Without any memory of stopping, I look up and I’m outside my local: the Doyle Arms pub.
A drink seems like a fucking good idea. I head inside.
The place is empty save for a couple of regulars who basically live here.
I nod a greeting and dander up to the bar.
Jack, the owner, acknowledges me and wanders over, wiping a pint glass with a tea towel.
“Early for you. What happened to your face?”
“Whiskey. Neat. And mind your own fucking business.”
He chuckles, reaches up to put the glass on the shelf and gives me an eyeful of his hairy beer belly. I curse. “Fuck’s sake, man, cover yourself up. Almost brought up my fucking breakfast.”
Jack just grins. He’s known me and my brothers for years and isn’t bothered by our bad tempers.
He sets a triple whiskey on the counter.
Ill-advisedly, I knock it back in one go and tap the bar for another.
I sip that one slower, staring into space.
My life is spiraling, and I don’t know what to do about it.
A gust of wind hits my back as the door opens, then slams shut. My peripheral vision picks up a guy bundled up in a winter coat standing next to me at the bar, but I’m not in the mood for idle chitchat. I turn my back, sending a silent message to fuck off.
When the stupid cunt taps me on the shoulder, I whip around, ready to blast him back out the door. Instead, I groan. “What the fuck do you want?”
Darragh flashes me that stupid grin of his again. “A drink. Like you.”
“Are you following me?”
He makes a kissing sound. “You wish.”
“Fuck off.”
Laughing, he holds up a finger to Jack, then points at my glass. Jack brings him a drink, then sensibly takes up a position at the farthest end of the bar. Darragh touches his glass to mine, then sips. “Okay, give it up before you fucking burst.”
I glower. “Give what up?”
“What’s the plan here, brother? You going to keep her locked up in that shitty room for the rest of her days while you throw a hissy fit toward anyone who treats her like a fucking human being?”
Turning to face him, I prop my elbow on the bar. “What do you care? It’s not like we’re the fucking Walton family. We’re the Sopranos without the therapy.”
“Maybe therapy is exactly what you need.”
I scoff a laugh. “Fuck. That.”
“Liam.” There’s a serious note to his tone that makes me want to hide so I don’t have to face him. “Talk to me.”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t have the words to explain.”
“Try.”
Jack’s ears are on stalks. I flip him the bird, then cock my head to Darragh.
We pick up our drinks and sit at a table where neither Jack, nor the resident alcoholics can hear us.
Darragh waits for me to say something, his expression open and with a lot more patience and understanding than I’d get from Patrick.
Our younger brother has always been the nicest out of the three of us.
Oh, he can turn it on when the business requires it, but beneath the family expectations, he’s soft as shite.
“I already told you. I loved her once, and she fucked me over. What else is there to say?”
“Why did she, though?”
“If I fucking knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering. Dickhead.”
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Have you asked her?”
“Yes, I’ve fucking asked her. I’m not an idiot.”
He arches a brow. “Debatable.”
“Do you want to eat through a straw for the next eight weeks?” My nostrils flare. “As long as she keeps up this Erin shite, I can’t break through.”
He leans back, knitted hands resting on his abdomen. “If this was an enemy, what would you do to make them talk?”
“Pull out their fingernails, then break every bone in their hands, then move onto the eyes. It’s usually the eyes where the weaker ones cave in and give up the intel.”
“Well then.” He makes a dismissive gesture. “There’s your answer.”
Back at the warehouse, this was my exact plan. Except Kai got inside my head and persuaded me to bring her back here. Now that I have, the ability to physically hurt her is waning. The forced proximity idea has weakened me when it was supposed to strengthen my position and destroy hers.
“Are you suggesting I apply these tactics on Rowan?”
He shrugs. “Why not? Your current approach doesn’t seem to be working.”
Okay, I take it back. He’s not the nicest one of us. He’s a fucking brute.
“Rowan isn’t one of those women. She won’t easily break.”
“Have you tried?”
“I kept her tied to a chair in a warehouse in London before bringing her here. Threatened her. She stuck to her fucking story and didn’t flinch.”
“But you didn’t physically hurt her?”
“No.”
“Then shortcut it. Forget the fingernails and the bones. Stick a knife to her eye and watch her crumble.”
I play out the scene. Imagine myself with the blade glinting in the light. Rowan’s eyes flaring with terror, sweat breaking out on her forehead as the knife inches closer to blinding her.
A visceral pain sears my chest. I can’t do it. I can’t fucking bear the thought of hurting her like that, of disfiguring her. This is why men like me should never fall in love. It weakens us, stops us from doing what’s necessary. Gives our enemies fuel to usurp our turf.
My fists clench. “I can’t.”
“I’ll do it if you want.”
My fist comes down on the table before I acknowledge I’ve moved. Jack, the two alcoholics, and an elderly couple who arrived a few minutes ago all look over at us. “Don’t you dare fucking touch her.”
The bastard smirks. Smirks after he just threatened to torture my woman. “Okay, then, the answer is easy.”
I grind my teeth. “Really? Go on then, Einstein. Fucking enlighten me.”
“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, brother.” He cocks his head and smirks in such an annoying way, a vision of me smashing his head into the table fires into my mind.
Fuck, it’s tempting. But the worst part is he’s right.
I’ve been trying to force Rebel’s hand, forgetting that I know this woman as well as I know myself.
Pinning her into a corner is not the way I make her spill her secrets. She’s as stubborn as me. Maybe more so.
Time for the charm offensive.
As much as it pains me, I force a smile. “You’re an annoying twat.”
His broad smile almost splits his face in two. “I fucking love being right.”
That makes two of us. Which is why I’m fucking raging that I didn’t come up with this plan first.