I wave a hand and stroll toward the table. “It was a creative compilation oftoys, I’ll give you that, Luv. I particularly admired the glittering pink monster dildo. Quite the statement piece.”
“Oh, God…” She buries her face in her hands.
“I took them away. I assure you, you won’t be needing those anymore, Darlin’.”
“Where are they?” she groans through her fingers.
“Safe. For now. Come, me sweet savior,” I drop the occasional ‘me’. “Eat before it gets cold. Then we’ll have dessert.”
I gesture to the table. She doesn’t change, but she sits, looking like a wee, dazed bird. I pull out her chair, fingers brushing the ends of her hair as she calms. She smells even better up close.
I serve her up a heaping portion of mash and bacon.
She takes a bite and lets out a soft sound of approval. “I can’t believe you did all this,” she whispers.
“Weren’t hard, Luv. Potatoes are an Irish staple. And ye had plenty.”
We both reach for the wine at the same time, fingers colliding. Static electricity.
“So, how was your day at the florist shop?”
Her blush fades into a sharp, calculating look. “Oh, fine. If you like arranging baby-shower flowers while big scary men with gang tattoos interrogate you.”
Instinct has me stiffening, hand straying to the crest ring on my pinky. I twist it, tendons in my arm tightening, blood running hot.
“And what did you tell them?”
She purses her lips and lifts her glass. “Nothing. I told them if I’d seen a bloody man with tattoos outside the shop, I’d have called an ambulance and then the police. Which is true.”
She’s fidgeting. But she’s not lying. It weren’t my lads. But I know they’re looking. And so are the rats who set me up. I can’t reach out to my sources yet.
Leaning back in the chair, I swirl my wine. “You have done me a great service, Elexia. On my honor, it will be repaid tenfold. No harm will come to you in this house.”
She relaxes a fraction and eats heartily of the meal before glancing at me.
“You mentioned dessert?” she asks.
I rise, my side screaming in protest as I move to the counter and uncover the second loaf. “Chocolate chips and oats. Put to good use.”
When I hand her a slice, I can’t resist brushing my knuckles along her cheek. She shivers but doesn’t pull away. Something beyond fear lingers there. Her cheeks redden something fierce, so damn pretty.
Eyes lowered to her plate, she wonders, “Would you like some tea?”
“Aye. It would complement the dessert nicely.”
We sit in a strange silence as the kettle whistles. She doesn’t ask questions. No ‘who are you’. No ‘why were they after you’.
Suspicious, so it is.
She returns with the tea. “I’ll check your bandages after we’re done. Make sure the stitches look healthy.”
“Go raibh maith agat,” I repeat.
I take a long sip. It’s warm, herbal…and within seconds, my head starts to swim.
The room begins to tilt. My vision blurs, and the edges of the world fray.
I recognize the symptoms before I hit the floor.
