Something heavy connects with the side of my head, blinding me with an explosion of white light. My knees buckle. The world tilts, and I’m hitting the floor before I can even register the pain.
Through a haze of gray and the ringing in my ears, I make out the weasel face of Finn O’Malley grinning down at me. He kicks my gun away and then drops a knee into my bruised ribs. I let out a wheezing groan, the air leaving my lungs in a desperate rush.
“Liam, no!” my world shrieks.
“Easy now, boy,” Finn sneers, baring his teeth. “I wouldn’t want to finish ye before the main event.”
He grabs my wrists, and high-grade steel clicks, cuffs locking them. I’m hauled upright and slammed into a heavy dining chair, my arms wrenched back and cuffed to the solid armrests.
Lexie is struggling, chest heaving, limbs writhing as she tries to pull away from my father. “Let him go! You bastard, let him go!”
My head is swimming, blood dripping from the gash in my temple and stinging my eye. I want to tell her it’s okay. I want to tell her I’ll kill them all.
Then, I see it.
She’s thrashing, her silver barrette—the one she’d used to escape her handcuffs in her room—falling from her curls. It bounces off my father’s knee and lands softly on my lap, hidden in the folds of my dark trousers. I wrestle, tipping the chair back just enough to slide the barrette, catching it in my fingers. Finn swings his fist again, and my spine snaps. I taste blood.
I stop fighting the cuffs and let my head hang, my fingers closing around the cold, delicate metal of the barrette.
A low, carnivorous rumble leaves my father’s throat. He cocks his head, staring me down, full of a cold, satisfied hunger.
“You may be clever and cunning, Liam,” he croons and drags his thumb over Lexie’s lower lip. Bile rises in my throat. She jerks away. “But you lack the patience of a true king.”
Hot embers flare in my throat. “Get your filthy hands off her,” I growl.
Darragh just smiles, a slow, terrifying thing. He pulls Lexie closer, forcing her to sit on his lap while he maintains the gun’s pressure against her ribs. He peers at Eamon, who stands by the silver tea service, watching the scene, expression unreadable.
“Now, lad,” Darragh says, leaning back in the chair, tugging Lexie’s hip back. “Let’s discuss your future. The way I see it, you’ve made a right mess of my legacy.”
He pauses, letting the silence weigh on the room.
“Here is what’s going to happen. You have forty-eight hours to transfer every one of those ‘clean’ tech and shipping assets back into liquid cash. The Old Guard is hungry, Liam, and you’ve been starving them.”
Lexie is staring at me, her breaths ragged, her eyes pleading. My fingers still work the lock with the barrette.
“And that’s just the beginning,” Darragh continues, roaming his hand over Lexie’s waist with a disgusting possessiveness. “You’ll restart the trafficking routes through the ports. No more morals, no more conscience. And to seal the deal, you’ll marry the daughter of the Dublin Syndicate head. It’s time we brought some fresh, established blood into this family.”
“And Lexie?” I glare.
“Elexia stays here.” Darragh cups her cheek. She snaps her teeth, a hiss of pure loathing escaping her. Darragh just chuckles. “She’ll be my personal…florist. Something to keep the house looking pretty. Something to remind me of my son’s failures.”
He leans in closer to her ear, his voice lowering to a tone of pure, unadulterated malice.
“And you should know, Liam…if you refuse, or if you even think about crossing me again…” He glances at Lexie, then back at me. “I’ll ensure her skin meets with nothing but thorns for the rest of her very short life.”
Icy sharp horror curdles my blood.
I lock eyes with my sweet savior. I need her to know. I need her to see the promise in my gaze.
I’m not going to obey. I’m going to finish what I started in the woods all those years ago. And I’m going to make sure a blade is the last thing he ever feels.
CHAPTER 23
Elexia
Every touch of Darragh Donovan feels necrotic. Every movement violates in such a way, it tells me exactly what he thinks I am. A prize. A trophy.
The gun barrel jabs my ribs, forming a cold, circular bruise. Low and guttural, his laughter vibrates against my back, twisting my stomach with a violent, oily nausea. Horror grips my chest.
