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ROHAN
I fucking hate wearing a tuxedo.Not only do I look like an entitled prick with more money than God, but it also makes my resemblance to my father more prominent, which, to be honest, is where most of the hatred stems from. Thankfully, his looks are the only thing I inherited. Although, many would probably attest to that fact.
Tugging at the collar of my shirt, my foot taps against the mosaic tiles surrounding the open bar as Aodhán drones on and on about banging Hannah in the bathroom.
Elbows resting on the bar top, I face the growing crowd and stay on guard. The Killybegs Kings are not the only syndicate attending tonight. Members from the other parts of the Isle are here, too. The families who run the remaining three provinces of Ireland — the Ulster, Munster and Connacht syndicates. For the most part, each syndicate remains in their territory, only crossing paths for events, such as tonight, or when one of the Kings lets his greed overpower his intelligence and declares a war on a quarter. And that never ends well.
“No dates tonight.” Lorcan approaches the bar, gesturing to the barman with his empty whiskey glass for another before dropping the Waterford crystal on the vintage mahogany bar top, then mirroring my stance.
“Not tonight, Lorcan,” Aodhán clears up. “Poor Rí here lost his date to a Devereux.” The humour lacing his tone pisses me off, but there’s no way I’ll let Lorcan see how much I’m fazed by Aodhán’s remark.
Lorcan’s curious gaze hones in on my face. His eyebrow creeps over his forehead, dancing dangerously close to his hairline. A slight smile teases the tilt of his lips. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yeah,” Aodhán punctuates with a nod of his head. “Want to know the best part?”
“Go on,” Lorcan adds, clear amusement lingering on his features, thanks to my discomfort.
My eyes shoot a death glare at Aodhán, warning him toshut the fuck up, but his devious grin widens.Arsehole.
“His pussy-whipped arse still bought her a fancy gown, costing more than most high-end used cars. My bet is she won’t even wear it.”
“Five hundred says she will.” Lorcan laughs, feeding Aodhán’s incessant need to wind me up.
“You’re on, boss man.”
Trying my best to ignore myformerbest friend, my attention diverts around the ballroom, scanning all the faces in attendance.You’re late, love.
Then, as if right on cue, the large oak medieval-style doors push open. Ashamed to admit it, I ignore the organ in my chest when it stops fucking beating, and focus on filling my lungs with a much-needed breath. I can’t deny it. She looks stunning.
The dress is perfect, just as I knew it would be. The pale pinky-purplish colour makes her tanned skin glow. I don’t know what all the material is called, but the way the tight, detailed bodice accentuates her waist, moulding her breasts before latching around her neck like a chokehold…Fuck. It has my mouth watering.
Hair pulled back, fastened at her nape as loose strands frame her face, showcasing her wide amber eyes. Not to mention her pinked pouty lips, matching the shade of her dress, making me want to stride across the ballroom and mess it up with a searing kiss. My pulse quickens, thumping in my throat as I fight to keep my feelings buried beneath my stoic disguise. But the second she steps forward and her toned leg peeks out from the thigh-high slit, all bets are off. My eyes trail her, laser-focused on every step she takes.
“Holy shit.” Aodhán follows my gaze. “You are completely and utterly fucked, mate.”
“I do not know what you’re talking about.” I draw my glass to my lips, hoping to conceal my emotions.
“Bullshit. She’s wearing the dress.”
Lorcan’s open palm appears extended across my chest, waiting for Aodhán to pay up.
Aodhán pulls his wallet from his suit jacket with a grumble, before slapping a wad of fifties into Lorcan’s palm. “Pleasure doing business with you, boys.”
He tips the rest of his whiskey down his throat before slapping his empty glass on the bar. Then his hand lands on my shoulder as he lowers his mouth to my ear so only I can hear. His voice deepens to a roughened brogue, his always concealed Belfast accent shining through his threat. “‘Member what I told ye, kid. There's no place for a Ryan in a wee King’s bed.”
Pulling my gaze off Saoirse, I face him with a raised brow. “Don’t know about you, boss man. But FYI, I don’t need a bed.”
Finally, I slam my glass down next to his and walk away with my head held high.
* * *
It’s been an hour,and I still can’t take my eyes off her. Every time she throws her head back, laughing at something Liam said, or when she keeps stepping on his toes as he teaches her how to waltz, I have to stop myself from beating the smug look off his face.
Every now and then, the smug prick glares over Saoirse’s shoulder and catches my eye. He knew I was going to ask Saoirse tonight, and like the slimy cunt he is, he decided he’d beat me to it. He’s not fooling me with his newfound gentleman façade, I am well aware what’s beneath his cool calm demeanour, and it sure as shit isn’t the gentle giant he’s pretending to be.
One hand in my pocket, the other resting against my chin, I stand at the edge of the dancefloor, surviving off the tiny glances she keeps throwing my way.
“Wanna dance?”
