Page 54 of Guilty as Sin

“This liability saved your life last night.” I clench my hands into fists.

“After endangering it in the first place.”

“How did I endanger you?”

“By existing,” he says plainly. “You’re a Muloney, and you’ll always be a Muloney. By marrying you, Brady’s brought the enemy into our family. And what’s worse, you brought your traitor brother with you.”

He’s threatening Connor, and I won’t stand here and listen to any more of it. With my anger rising past control, I turn on my heel and return toward the bookshelf.

I didn’t choose this marriage either. I hated the very idea at first.

But now…

It’s still not what I would’ve chosen. And yet, I know I can’t cram myself back into my civilian life, I can’t make my violence curl up inside a cage again. Being Brady O’Sullivan’s wife has its benefits. He’s recognized that unleashed part of me, and it matches his own so well.

Once I’ve closed the bookshelf door behind me, I stride through the bathroom and into the closet. The term closet is less accurate than dressing room. The space is so big there’s a chaise lounge beside the full-length trifold mirror. All three of my reflections confirm that bralessness does not work with this sheath dress, especially not for a family dinner.

I try on one of Brady’s suit jackets, but it’s comically large on me. Still, I want to wear what he asked me to, or rather, not wear what he told me not to. The thought that he’ll reward me is too tempting not to follow his instructions. But I’ll need something to conceal my nipples, which I know will harden into visible points as soon as he looks at me with those piercing eyes of his.

I think of what might annoy him the most, of what might lead to a punishment as well as a reward. Running my fingers along Brady’s hanging shirts, I notice that each one is crisply pressed to his immaculate standards, and I have my answer. Wrinkles. I select one of his white dress shirts and roll up the sleeves, then pull it on and knot it at the front.

It’s not perfect, but it’ll work as a dress cover-up. And it will definitely leave wrinkles.

* * *

Finn abandons me as soon as we step into the pub, and I exhale all my pent-up frustration with him. Because he didn’t want to get here “too early,” we spent the afternoon in sullen silence in Brady’s office. I assume it was so Finn could avoid the menial labor of tending bar.

Scanning the pub’s loose crowd, I spot Orla’s russet-and-silver bob through the decorative windows of the front room. There’s only one large table in that section, separated from the rest of the pub by a short wall topped with industrial glass. On the day I was here, the space was open to everyone, although the few customers who used it seemed like out-of-towners.

Today, its corner door is closed. Ten years of rule-abiding tell me to avoid it, to turn away and go chat with Erin, to see if she needs help behind the bar. Although we only worked together for a few hours, I really like the badass bartender.

But before I make any decision, Orla catches sight of me and beckons me over with a jerk of her head. I’m not thrilled about being summoned like that, but I’m here for an O’Sullivan family dinner. I dig my nails into my palms and do what I have to.

I pass a large customer who was blocking half my view, and I see that Orla’s not alone in the front room. She’s playing cards with her youngest son, Kieran, while Declan watches on.

I dig my nails deeper into my skin. I should’ve figured that the O’Sullivan patriarch would be present, but I didn’t mentally prepare myself. For the entire afternoon, I was too busy containing my urge to argue with Finn, who’s made it clear he’s a threat to my brother. Nothing else for it now but to show the rest of my husband’s family who they’re dealing with.

I let myself into the private room with all the confidence in the world.

“You look good in my son’s shirt,” Orla says, but it’s not a compliment. I know I look like a walk of shame, and I really don’t give a damn.

I thank her anyway as I take my seat. When I nod my hellos to Declan and Kieran, Declan grunts and Kieran gapes at me, most likely at my outfit.

“We’re teaching Kieran the finer aspects of poker,” Orla says, indicating the stacks of quarters on the table. “It’s five card draw.” She deals me in without asking and slides me what looks like ten dollars in coins.

Orla, Kieran, and I play a few hands without talking much, apart from the occasional advice to Kieran. If it weren’t for Orla, it’d be a very uncomfortable silence.

Declan sits unmoving, but everything about his presence is quietly threatening.

“Da, I’m dealing you in,” Orla announces.

To my surprise, he doesn’t grumble about it, he just picks up his cards and takes his quarters. There’s now at least forty dollars in play, and I get the impression that we are playing for keeps.

The fact that Declan’s participating seems to activate his willingness to speak.

“You’ve been in our town for a while now,” he says to me.

“Ten years.”