“This isn’t what I do,” I say slowly. "I'm an enforcer. An assassin, not a?—"
"Not a what?" McBride interrupts. "Not a husband? Not a protector? Sean, you're whatever we need you to be. That's always been the arrangement."
"And if I refuse?"
The silence that follows is answer enough. Refusal isn't an option. Refusal would mean I've not only failed a mission but refused a direct order. That's grounds for execution.
McBride's expression softens slightly, though his eyes remain cold. "This is an opportunity, Sean. You've been our weapon for twenty-three years. You were fifteen when you came to us—you’ve served us for that lifetime and more. You've lived alone, kept yourself apart, done the dirty work without complaint. But you're thirty-eight years old. A man needs a wife. A comfort. Something more than just an outlet for pleasure. It’ll be good for you.”
I only barely suppress a snort. As if any of these men know what’sgood for me,or what I need. As if they really care. I’m a means to an end for them, and nothing more.
“So you want me to branch out from executioner to husband,” I say flatly. “I’m not capable of being what she needs.”
“What matters is that you’re whatweneed,” McBride says firmly. "The girl is young, malleable. You'll shape her, guide her, ensure her loyalty, and see that she fulfills her role as a wife and a mother. And in return, you'll have access to wealth and powerbeyond what you've known. This is a step up for you, Flannery. You won’t only be our weapon. If you do well, if you prove yourself, perhaps you’ll be rewarded with a seat at this table with power of your own. Once you provide a son and heir to the fortune, perhaps.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of it. They're ordering me to marry this woman as a chance for redemption, as something that on the surface looks like a prize, though I know it’s a punishment. McBride knows me well; he knew I wouldn’t be pleased with this. If I had to guess, it was likely Fitzgerald’s suggestion, since he’s never liked me. But she’s not a punishment or a prize or a reward. She's a person, a young woman who's lost everything, who's about to be handed over to a killer because it serves the Council's interests.
And I'm supposed to accept this. I'm supposed to fly to Boston, walk into her home, and claim her like she's property.
I let out a slow breath. There’s no real choice here. There’s only acceptance and death, and I know I’m not a good man. I’m not willing to take a bullet to prevent this woman from having to accept me as a husband, no matter how little I like what I’m being told to do.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. They’ll just find someone else to achieve their ends, and I’ll be dead all the same.
I close the folder. “When do I leave?”
Fitzgerald looks mildly put out, almost as if he were hoping that maybe I’d refuse, but McBride smiles, clearly pleased with my capitulation. “Tomorrow morning,” McBride says. "We've already made arrangements. You'll travel with a small delegation, present yourself as Miss Connelly’s future husband. She'll understand that marriage to you is her best option for survival. You'll make it clear that refusal isn't in her best interests."
My stomach twists. "Force her, you mean."
"Persuade her," Fitzgerald corrects with a thin smile. "Surely a man with your talents can be persuasive."
I look around the table, my jaw tight. "Is that all?"
"One more thing," McBride says. "This marriage will be consummated, and it will be legitimate in every legal sense. We need her bound to you, completely under your control. No possibility of annulment, no questions about the validity of the union." He pauses. “And it would be best if she were to get pregnant as soon as possible. If that child isn’t a boy, put another in her belly as soon as you’re able, until there’s a male heir to the Connelly fortune. Am I clear?”
The implications of that hit me like a fist to the gut. They're not just asking me to marry this girl. They're expecting me to fuck her—frequently—to bind her to me in every possible way.
The thought horrifies me. She’s young—too young for me—scared, alone, and helpless. She’ll be coerced into this marriage just as I’m being forced into it right now.
But underneath that, a strange thread of something else stirs. The vision of her pale, delicate face swims in my mind’s eye, and McBride’s order to fuck her, to all but breed her without flat-out saying it so crassly, makes my cock twitch rebelliously, a heavy arousal building deep in my groin.
"I understand," I say, my voice flat.
"Good." McBride nods, dismissing me. "You're free to go. We'll expect regular reports once you're in Boston. Don't fail us again, Sean. You won't get a third chance."
The implication is crystal clear. I nod and stand, tucking the folder under my arm, and walk out of the room without another word. My mind is spinning, rage and frustration warring with the cold pragmatism that's kept me alive this long—and underneath it all, that dark, insidious desire that is nothing like anything I’ve ever felt before. A writhing need that is whollyunfamiliar to me and unwelcome, stirred first by the sight of her and then by the order to fuck her and get her pregnant.
They've trapped me. Neatly, efficiently, completely. I can't refuse without signing my own death warrant, and they know it. They're using my failure—my moment of mercy—to turn me into something different. Not a killer, but a jailer.
A husband.
—
The only thingthat feels like it might ease the churning in my gut is a drink with my oldest friend. I go back to my small, cold apartment, throw the folder onto the bed, and head back out almost immediately. There’s a cold drizzle in the air and heavy fog lying over the streets, but I walk anyway, welcoming the chill in my bones as I walk toward Temple Bar with my hands in my pockets. By the time Flynn O’Neil walks in, I’m nursing my second whiskey, a pint of Guinness at my elbow.
Flynn takes one look at me and motions to the waitress—a pretty thing in a flouncy dress and a cropped cardigan against the cold, with hair redder than her dress—as he slides onto a barstool next to me at the high-top.
“Rough day?” he asks sympathetically, and I grimace.
