Carnal Urges

5

Why is this man so crabby?

I don’t care. I just want to kick him in the shin. No—somewhere more tender.

Before I can shout more muffled curses at him through his necktie, he hauls me up by my wrists, spins me around, backs me up a few steps, then pushes me into the chair he was sitting in. He fastens the lap belt over me, cinching it tightly across my lap. Then he leans down into my face, all muscular and murdery.

He snaps, “You have a choice to make, lass. Either you sit here quietly until the end of the flight, or you continue to test my patience. If you decide to go with option number two, the consequences will be dire.”

I must be psychically telegraphing that I doubt him, because he elaborates.

“I’ll call the boys back here and let them watch while I tear that ridiculous tutu off you and spank your naked ass until it’s red. Then I’ll let each of them have a turn. After that…” He pauses meaningfully. “I’ll let them take turns doing whatever they want.”

Sweet baby Jesus, I wish I knew Morse code. I would blink this asshole such a terrorist threat with my eyelids that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of his life.

Whatever he sees in my eyes makes him smile. I hate it that he gets a charge out of infuriating me.

“So, which will it be? One or two?”

He c***s his eyebrow and waits for me to respond. Maintaining eye contact, I lift my bound hands and raise a single finger.

The middle one.

A muscle flexes in his jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose. He grinds his back teeth for a while, because apparently it’s his thing, then he straightens and gazes down at me like I’m a turd on the bottom of his shoe.

When his cell phone rings, he whips it out of his pocket so fast, it’s a blur.

Sounding tense, he orders to whoever’s calling, “Talk to me.”

He listens intently, unmoving, his eyes narrowed, his gaze focused on a spot somewhere on the wall above my head. The hand not holding the phone clenches to a fist. Then he closes his eyes and mutters, “Fuck.”

He listens a while longer, then disconnects. He lowers his arm to his side.

Then he stands there with his eyes closed, every muscle in his body tensed. His hand is gripped so hard around the phone, his knuckles are white.

When he finally opens his eyes and looks down at me, his eyes aren’t blue anymore.

They’re black.

I decide this is the wrong time to demonstrate that he should’ve cuffed my hands behind my back, not in front. All I need to do to ungag myself is to reach up and pull the tie out of my mouth and down my jaw.

But he doesn’t seem in the mood for one-upmanship, so I wait.

He turns away abruptly and strides down the aisle toward his crew. He says a few words to them. Whatever his news is, it shocks them. They shift in their seats, muttering to each other and throwing me strange glances. Kieran looks especially unnerved.

I don’t have time to wonder what’s happening, because Declan is striding back to me, his eyes fierce, his jaw like stone.

He sweeps by and disappears into the galley behind the cockpit. In a moment, he reappears, holding a glass of water. He sits opposite me and holds out the glass without a word.

When I take it from him, he leans over and pries the tie out of my mouth, sliding it down my jaw until it drops to my chest and hangs there like a necklace. Or a noose.

Surprised at this reversal, I thank him.

He doesn’t respond. He simply sits and stares at me, his expression dark. One index finger taps a slow, steady beat on the arm of the sofa.

I polish off the glass of water, aware of him watching my every move. Aware of him thinking as he gazes at me. His eyes are speculative. Calculating. Hard.

Whatever that phone call was about, it had something to do with me.

We sit in awkward silence until I’m so self-conscious, I have to force myself not to squirm in my seat.

Finally, he says, “Do you know how to use a gun?”

The question startles me. Judging by his expression, I was expecting him to lunge at me again. “Yes.”

He doesn’t look surprised. “And I assume from the way you handled yourself with Kieran, you know some form of self-defense?”

Where is he going with this? “Yes.”

He mutters, “Good.”

Good? What’s going on here?

When he remains silent, brooding over whatever his call was about, I wiggle my fingers for permission to speak. He sends me a curt nod.

“What’s happened?”

His cold blue gaze on me is steady. “There’s been a change of plans.”

My mouth is dry again, despite the water I drank. “So I’m not going to meet the head of your family?”

Something about the question amuses him, but in a dark way. His chuckle is totally devoid of humor. “You’re meeting with him right now.”

It takes a moment for it to dawn on me. Declan is the new boss of the Irish mafia.

Whoever the old boss was, he’s dead.

And somehow, I’m the cause of it.

4

Sloane

I

t’s raining in Boston when the plane touches down. I don’t know what time it is, but I’m exhausted. Everything aches, including the soles of my feet, which are covered in tiny cuts and bruises.

Wherever I ran in my escape attempt before they finally got me onto the plane, it must’ve been far.

I wish I could recall, but there’s a black hole in my memory. It matches the black holes of Declan’s eyes every time they swing in my direction.