My ass stinging, I put my feet up on the table, smile at Declan, and say calmly, “Honey. You’re home.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks at each man in the room, one by one, his expression stony. Everyone shrinks.
“It’s not their fault. I invited them in.”
Ignoring me, he says something to the men in Gaelic, his voice steady and low.
Several of the men swallow. One or two fidget nervously. A few go white.
I stand and fold my arms to mimic Declan’s posture. “I said, it’s not their fault.”
“I heard what you said. Spider, you go first.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Spider steps up to the table. He removes a huge knife from a sheath he’s wearing under his coat. He leans over the table, flattens his left hand on the surface, and presses the knife to his pinky.
I jump up, screaming.
