Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I lie back on my bed, staring at her as she moves about her apartment wearing nothing but a pair of tight panties and a tank. Christ, she’s fucking hot, all curves and dimples.
I stroke my cock through my jeans, imagining those lips wrapped around me, her thighs shaking as I take my time marking every fucking inch of her. I’ll make her beg—not just for mercy—for me. Her belly swollen with my child flashes through my mind, and I fuck my fist harder, needing it—needing to know no other man will ever touch her again, because she’s already carrying my blood.
I spent weeks here in Dublin before our big meeting, blending into the background, leaning into my natural skills to study my prey. I move through the city’s streets without attracting attention. It’s easy in a place like this, teeming with people and businesses, tourists and families. Head down. Don’t make small talk. I order groceries and avoid the shops, and I don’t cause a disturbance anywhere I go. I’m a model citizen. If anyone ever suspected who I really am, my elderly landlord would say with such confidence, “But he was such a decent bloke.”
It’s ridiculously easy to pretend to be normal and sane.
She walks through her apartment, blissfully unaware she’s being watched—straightens a throw pillow, wipes down a counter. I lose sight of her for a minute when she heads to the kitchen, but she comes back later with a pint of chocolate ice cream, sits on the sofa, and picks up her phone, mindlessly scooping large bites of ice cream. When a drop falls on her lip, her tongue quickly laps it up.
Fuck. I’m hard as fuck watching her.
I unzip my pants and stroke my dick, mesmerized as she flicks through her phone until she settles on something, leans back, and watches. It’s hard to see her from this angle.
I lift the scarf I stole from her, along with the blonde wig, a bar of soap, and one of her tops. I inhale her fragrance—light and almost spicy, with a citrus edge. I’ve seen her turning her apartment upside down, looking for them, but after a few days of rest, she’s given up.
If she had any idea how close I am to her while she’s right here, under my nose, walking free under the protection of the Irish…
She’s grown complacent with them. Why?
Maybe she thinks the Irish are just regular clients like anyone else. Maybe she doesn’t know what they’re fully capable of.
That’s what gnaws at me. She’s too at ease, moving through their world like she belongs. But there’s something else—something that twists in my gut.
None of them touch her. Ever. And they’re like us—marrying age and in need of wives. Keenan McCarthy’s carried on the family tradition of arranged marriages.
I’ve watched her interact with them. The men defer to her. They speak to her, joke with her, but they don’t get too close. Not like they would with a woman they claim as their own. Not like they would if she belonged to one of them.
Good. Killing one of them would fuck that alliance to hell.
She shifts on the couch, stretching out, then curling her bare legs beneath her. Then, out of nowhere, I see it—something I wasn’t expecting.
She laughs. Not a forced laugh or the clipped kind you give when you’re keeping up appearances. No. A real one. Her head tilts back, her lips part, and the sound is soft. Unguarded. Real. I can’t remember the last time I heard someone laugh with such abandon, with such wonder and unreserved humor.
Does she laugh like that with the Irish? Jealousy claws at me and my chest tightens. For weeks, I’ve observed her—careful, calculating, always watching her back. But right now, she looks… free.
It quickly evaporates, but a strange part of me wants to hold onto it, gather it in my hands, and tuck it safely into a jar where I could store it out of reach. But just as soon as it comes, it’s gone.
She shakes her head, still grinning at whatever amused her on her phone before she does something that fucking destroys me.
Reaching for a fluffy, blush-colored blanket folded at the foot of the couch, she shakes it open and pulls it over herself. I watch as she nuzzles it like she’s seeking comfort. Like she’s safe.
She rocks herself, and her eyes close shut. I wonder if she’s playing music when I see her swaying slightly. She isn’t on guard but… vulnerable.
For a split second, a voice in the back of my mind whispers—what if she isn’t what they say? What if she isn’t our enemy? What if—
No. I crush the thought as quickly as it comes. The evidence is right in front of my face. She’s a liar. And now she’s mine.