Page 34 of Guilty as Sin

“Alright,” he says. “But you owe me.”

I really don’t, given that we’re family. But I agree with him anyway.

When we get inside, the security guard gives us a respectful nod. I trust him the way I trust any of our men, but my wife’s safety depends on too many others. It should only take me.

Finn grunts something like goodnight as he steps out on his floor. Then it’s only me in the elevator. I take a deep breath.

This night is only the fucking start.

War is coming.

The doors open to our penthouse, spotless as I always keep it and fully lit. Cora’s curled up asleep on a couch. I pull off my shoes to walk quietly toward her. She’s wearing a Loyola sweatshirt and leggings. The sweatshirt is so worn her elbows show through, and she’s got her arms crossed like she’s cold. I take a blanket from another couch to drape over her.

Don’t get soft on me, Brady.

I clench the blanket in my fist, then toss it back where it was. It makes the lightest thwump, but apparently that’s all it takes.

Chapter 16

Cora

I lurch awake, disoriented. In order, I register: strange room, man, threat. I’m on my feet in an instant. The resulting head rush makes my vision spin, and my feet stumble toward the threat. When I catch myself on him, I realize it’s Brady, and we’re in the penthouse living room. I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. I exhale.

He’s still a threat, but not an immediate one.

He shoves my touch away with a dangerous snarl. It seems like an overreaction, but then I register that I’d caught myself by gripping his shoulder, where a patch of blood now blooms through his light gray T-shirt.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” I ask it without thinking, then have to remind myself I don’t care.

“I’m fine.” His vehemence cracks like a whip to rouse my anger.

“Then show me,” I challenge.

For a moment all he does is glare at me. There’s menace in it, and I feel my pulse in my throat as I keep my chin lifted and my own glare steady.

He peels off his shirt and tosses it on the floor, then goes right back to glaring at me.

I suck in a breath. There’s a two-inch gash above his collarbone, perilously close to his neck. From the weeks I spent on rotation in the ER, I know it’s a stab wound. I also know that it needs stitching as soon as possible.

Gritting my teeth, I rush to my room to get my medical supplies. Fucking Hippocratic Oath. It’s my responsibility to act on this whether I like it or not, and no matter how much I dislike the patient.

Emergency gear bag in hand, I return to find Brady at the kitchen sink, dabbing his wound clean with paper towels.

“That needs stitches,” I inform him. “Go sit on the couch.”

I slide in between him and the sink to wash my hands. He’s a block of marble that doesn’t move. With his unyielding body pressed against mine, I feel surrounded by him. If he leaned forward, if he placed both of his hands on the sink’s edge, I’d be trapped. My heart races like I’m a rabbit caught in a snare, but I show no fear as I dry my hands.

I turn to face him, but he still doesn’t move. With the fronts of our bodies pressed together like this, I can’t help but notice how solid and warm he is. I glare up at him.

“Go sit on the couch,” I repeat, but he doesn’t budge. I get the sense he’s fighting against his better judgment, not wanting to follow my instructions out of sheer spite. Stubborn jerk. I draw in a breath and stand as tall as I can.

“If you don’t let me stitch that, it’s going to heal improperly, and your right hook will be sloppy until you die. If you’re never able to punch someone again, I’d actually prefer that, but if you want to keep yourself in fighting shape, you will go sit on the couch.”

I remind myself of Erin as I say it. The pub’s manager is a take-no-prisoners baddie, and our shift behind the bar went smoothly because of her. No thanks to Brady, Liam, and Finn, who all left early, apparently so Brady could go get stabbed.

His nostrils flare as he glowers down at me, but we don’t have time for another standoff. I shove past him to grab a kitchen chair and position it in front of the couch. Selecting the necessary tools from my bag, I see Brady out of the corner of my eye as he prowls his way toward the couch. I’m tempted to make a point of watching him, to enjoy the sight of his self-hating surrender, but I decide not to push it. I wouldn’t put it past him to head for the couch, then saunter right on by.

He sits down in front of me like a king on his throne, as if my tending to his wound is a supplication. When he leans back, I get a front-row view of his muscled torso, his abs so developed I want to run my fingertips along every ridge. I clear my throat to get a grip on myself, then lean forward to clean the edges of his wound with alcohol. It must sting like hell, but he doesn’t make any sound as he grimaces.