I see one of the three men I assigned to Bridget and Erin Kavanagh as guards. I snap my fingers and point to the ground in front of me.
He looks like he’s about to shite himself.
“Sir?” he says nervously.
“Have you found them?” I growl.
“Believe so, sir. On this floor. Over there.”
“Grand.” I point my finger at him. “But that doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods. I’m going to kick the shite out of you for this—you and your mates. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, and gulps.
Declan shakes his head, cracks his knuckles, and the guard takes a step back.
“You let Cavin McCarthy’sbetrothedsneak into the fucking Craic,” Declan says, his voice low and dangerous.
“I tried to keep her away, sir, but she?—”
“You’re trying to make an excuse now?” Declan says, furious. “That’s my cousin’s future wife.”
“I know, sir, but I?—”
“You and the other two”—Declan cuts him off—“you keep a close eye on them until we leave. Where’s the younger sister?”
“They’re both in the dance room, sir.”
“Right.” I crack my neck and head toward the back of the club, my blood running hot with anger and something else I can’t quite name.
Time to collect my wayward bride.
Chapter Thirteen
Erin
I try not to stare,but it’s hard not to. Everywhere I turn, there’s another spectacle, a feast for the eyes that makes my pulse quicken and my cheeks flush.
There are different colored rooms, each named for its dominant hue. An exclusive dance floor thrums with bodies, where people are doing all sorts of mischievous things right in plain sight. Right out in the open!
Though part of me is shamefully excited about this, I’ve wondered how certain things work, and there are positions and acts that romance books don’t quite prepare you for—not really.
I try not to stare at the threesome on the violet leather sofa. A woman is going down on a man, taking his cock deep before pulling back, her head bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm. There’s a man behind her—Jesus Christ—pounding into her while she works.
Nobody else is even looking. Nobody bats an eye. I’m floored by the whole thing, heat crawling up my neck.
In the corner of the room, there’s something that looks like stocks from the old ages—wooden restraints with circular holes. A woman’s got her head and hands locked in place, bent forward, exposed. A man stands behind her with what looks like a leather flogger, but there’s a look of absolute peace on her face. Bliss, even.
I’d managed to break the entry code to get in and quickly realized that single women without partners wore purple tags tied to their forearms. So Bridget and I acquired the purple tags so nobody would question why we didn’t have somebody with us.
I’m starting to wonder if the purple tag means something else entirely, though, because I’ve had no less than three men approach me, trying to coax me toward one of the private rooms. Bridget’s had the same problem. We do look stunning, thanks to our new spoils of war, but I was still unprepared forthiskind of attention.
“Alright, have you seen enough now?” I whisper to her, tugging at her elbow. “If Cavin ever catches wind that I was here?—”
“He’d be honored that you frequented his establishment,” she says with a bold wink, cutting me off.
“Not so sure about that,” I mutter under my breath. “But perhaps you’re not wrong.”
I looked around carefully when we first arrived, and I didn’t recognize anybody. There’s one man who looks vaguely familiar from dinner the other night, but I can’t quite place him. A cousin, maybe? None of Cavin’s family have shown up, though it’s still rather early in the night. Maybe they don’t come. Maybe they just own the place, rake in the profits, but don’t actually frequent it themselves.
