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Donnacha
I don’t stop fucking my fist until the sun comes up. After a few stolen hours of shut-eye, I roll out of bed, post-nut clarity lingering around like a bad smell.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. I made a vow to myself that I wasn’t going to indulge in my sick fantasies anymore, no matter what dark promise I made to my new wife.
All she had to do was sit down at the dinner table, make polite conversation while I twirled her god-awful pasta around a fork and slipped it into her plump little mouth. All she had to do was swallow, look like a fucking angel, and then leave me to retire to my office, where I’d have beat my meat to the thought of fucking her in that ridiculous black dress.
All she had to do was be good. Instead, she brought a homemade shank to my throat, something even the Quinns’ brashest enemies wouldn’t be brave enough to do.
I should have shown restraint, but it turns out, I have none. Now that I know the feeling of her soft ass under my palm, I’m desperate to know what her pain sounds like. What her pleasure sounds like. I wish I never knew that she’d rather spill her own blood than utter a single sound.
Every fiber of my being needs to know what it feels like to break her.
I wash last night’s sins away in the shower, slip on my hardened exterior along with my Armani suit, and comb away the thoughts of Romy as I drag wax through my hair.
Drinking my espresso overlooking the gloomy New York skyline, I mutter another vow under my tongue. One I’m determined to keep.
I’ll throw myself into work and avoid her. Family first.
But that’ll only work if I appease her enough to prevent another outburst.
I grab my cell from the kitchen island and call Aisling. A few moments later, the elevator dings, and my sister strides into the penthouse.
Her first words aren’t good morning or even hello. Instead, she balances her textbooks against her hip, swings her dark hair over her shoulder, and snaps, “What?”
I pin her with a dangerous glare, but I don’t have time for my usual lecture. The one I give her every time she runs her smart mouth, the one about being lucky that being my housekeeper isn’t her full-time job, her only career prospect, and actually, her entire reason for existing. Up until ten years ago, Quinn women were always staff. Maids, cooks, cleaners, secretaries at Quinn Capital. But after the Bratnov war, it was one of the many traditions Lorcan changed. Thank god, because I couldn’t deal with my bratty sister storming around my apartment all day, face like a slapped ass cheek. Instead of washing my Calvin Kleins, I allow her to live in the apartment below while she studies in the city. All I ask is that she keeps on top of the building and its staff while I’m in Boston.
“I need you to keep an eye on my new wife.”
She flashes me a look, one I know like the back of my hand. Slamming her textbooks on the counter and dropping her hip, she barks, “Not a chance on this God’s green earth.”
I suppress my chuckle. Because while she might not work for me anymore, she sure as hell doesn’t have a choice in doing what I say. “Yes, Aisling. It’s not up for debate.”
When she throws her head back and stomps a sneaker on the ground, she appears a lot younger than her twenty-one years. “Look, Don. I’m so fucking tired. I’ve been up all night studying, and the night before that, I was up all night cleaning up after your psychotic wife. Did you see she shot the head off that ugly-ass statue you had over there?” She stabs a finger to the corner of the room. “Did you see the huge scar on Ronan’s head? That was all her! I’ve done my bit, going grocery shopping and picking out a wardrobe for her, so please don’t make me do any more.”
“You don’t think you can handle her?” I say with a mocking smile. “You’re a Quinn, remember? You’re tough.”
Her brows knit together. “Sure, you’ve taught me to throw a mean punch, and I take judo once a week, but I’m not equipped to fight off crazy.”
“Twice a day,” I say, draining my espresso and dropping the mug in the sink. “That’s all I ask for.”
She grumbles something under her breath. Then looks out the window like she’s reminding herself that the views from her apartment could be worth keeping me happy to avoid getting kicked out.
“Fine,” she pouts, picking up her textbooks and striding back to the elevator. “But if she harms a hair on my head, I’m telling Poppy.” She turns to wiggle a finger at me. “She’s really pissed at you.”
“So I’ve heard.”
As the elevator doors slide open, she pauses. Opens her mouth, shuts it again. Then says, “Don, I don’t know what little scheme you’ve got going on. You know I stay out of family politics. But…” She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes, pins me with a soft look. “I wish you would have told me.”
There’s a small knot in my throat. I cough to get rid of it. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
As the doors shut behind her, I busy myself with another phone call. Less than a minute later, Ronan strides into the apartment, adjusting his earpiece.
“Morning, boss.”
His tone is confident. His eyes tell a different story. They are shifting, looking for something. Someone.
