Simone
Ronan dragsme to the car, his grip on my wrist bruising and unrelenting. I stumble in my heels, trying to keep up as he practically throws me into the backseat of the Escalade. The door slams shut so hard the entire vehicle shakes.
Killian, who accompanied him to Axis, remains conspicuously on the sidewalk, talking on the phone to who I can only assume are more of Ronan’s crew.
I know exactly why he would be—the guy I was dancing with is about to find out what happens when you touch an Irish mobster’s wife.
“What are you doing?!” I yell. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
Ronan strides to the driver’s side and gets in without another word.
We’re speeding off a second later. The city blurs past us in a riot of bright colors—neon signs, blinking streetlights, blinding headlights—all of it disorienting as Ronan weaves through traffic like a man possessed.
His jaw is clenched so tight, his masseter muscle bounces. His hand grips the steering wheel with white-knuckled rage as if he’s trying to strangle it.
The same fury burns in his emerald eyes, his gaze fixed on the road.
Dread sinks into my stomach.
Shit. Maybe I’ve pushed him too far.
Chantal and I had gotten dressed up in our tightest, most revealing dresses and gone out clubbing in the Lower East Side. We hit up Axis and Pulse, sipping on cocktails, dancing, laughing. It was mostly innocent fun—a way to blow off steam so I could feel like myself again instead of some caged bird in the Callahan household.
I wasn’t even planning on staying out that late. I just wanted to go out for a couple hours and get my lick back.
Then those two guys approached and asked us to dance. We’d said yes, figuring one quick dance couldn’t hurt.
A secret part of me was petty and vindictive enough to enjoy the thought I was getting back at Ronan. I rolled my hips and gyrated against the stranger, moving to the heavy bass, letting his hands rest on my waist.
It was never going to go any further than that. I wouldn’t have let it.
But if Ronan could stay out and do whatever he wanted, why wasn’t I allowed to too?
My defiance was cut short when he showed up out of nowhere. He was a storm crashing down on us.
Suddenly I looked up and found myself caught up in the category-five hurricane that was Ronan Callahan.
The possessive way he looked at me made my heart stop. It made me freeze up on the spot as he strode over and punched the guy I was dancing with in front of dozens of people. He probably would’ve beat the shit out of the guy himself had there not been so many witnesses.
So instead he dragged me out of the club.
Now, sitting in the backseat of the Escalade, I’m aware of what’s going to happen next. We’re about to have a blowout as soon as we get home.
We arrive at Callahan House, the tires screeching as he pulls into the driveway so fast I’m thrown against the seatbelt. He’s out of the car the instant we park, rounding to my side and yanking the door open. His hand clamps around my arm like a vice, and he storms into the house, dragging me with him.
“Ronan, let go of me!”
He doesn’t answer, refusing to even look at me.
We rush up the stairs, practically flying up the first flight and then the second and third. I’d fall if he didn’t have his ironclad grip on my arm. He keeps me upright as I stumble in my heels and try to keep pace.
As soon as we’re inside our bedroom, I wrench myself free, staggering back several steps. My chest heaves as I glare at him.
He slams the door shut behind us, the loud thud like a crack of thunder. Then he locks it, demonstrating we’re stuck together in this room.
One way or another, we’ll be forced to confront what’s happened.
