Page 61 of Mine
He smirks, though I catch the flicker of fear in his eyes. It’s one thing to challenge a beast. It’s entirely another to look into its eyes and see the souls of all of those who’ve tried before.
And Mcallister has just realised it.
He lunges first. They always do. His fist swings wide—sloppy, eager. I step into it, letting it glance off my shoulder as my own fist drives straight into his ribs. Hard. Precise. I feel the crack beneath my knuckles and the air leave his lungs in a strangled gasp.
The bar erupts. Chairs scrape. Glass shatters. Ciaran laughs—actually fucking laughs—as he launches himself at one of the others.
McAllister staggers back, wheezing, but I don’t give him a second to recover. I grab the front of his shirt, slam him back against the nearest table hard enough to splinter wood, and drive my fist into his face.
Once.
Twice.
Blood sprays. His. Not mine.
‘You,’ I snarl, leaning in close, my grip tightening on his collar, ‘walk into my bar?—’
Another punch. His head snaps to the side. ‘—say my name—’Again. My knuckles split this time. I feel it. Welcome it even. ‘—and think you walk out?’
I slam him down onto the table. It collapses beneath his weight with a crack, sending him crashing to the floor. One of his men comes at me from the side. I turn just in time to catch his wrist, twist—hard—and drive my elbow into his throat. He drops instantly, choking, clawing at his neck. The third hesitates. Smartest one of the lot, but that doesn’t save him. Ciaran has him by the collar before he can take a stepback, headbutting him with a sickening crack before tossing him aside like he weighs nothing.
I look back down at McAllister. He’s trying to crawl. Pathetic. I plant my foot on his chest and shove him flat on his back, crouching slowly so he has no choice but to look at me. Blood pools beneath his head, his face already swelling beyond recognition.
‘Fuck off back to the hole you crawled out of,’ I say quietly, almost conversationally. ‘And tell whoever you’re working for I send my regards.’
His lips move, but nothing coherent comes out. I lean closer. My fist connects with his jaw one final time. This one isn’t controlled. This one is personal. His body goes slack.
Silence falls throughout the bar—heavy and absolute.
I straighten slowly, flexing my hand. Blood drips from my knuckles, dark and steady, hitting the floor in quiet, rhythmic taps.
No one moves. No one speaks. I glance around the room, meeting every eye in turn. ‘Anyone else?’
Not a single fucking person steps forward. I grab a cloth from the bar, wrap it loosely around my hand, and head for the door.
I’ve made my point.
Now I want to go home.
27
DOMINIC
It’s almost nine by the time I get home. I head straight for the kitchen in search of a drink. Aoife’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe she went to bed? That’s where I should go, but not before I pour myself a large Beckett’s Gold and clean the blood from my hands.
It’s one thing for Aoife to think I hurt people, and another thing to see fresh blood smeared across my knuckles. Nothing a long, hot shower won’t fix. Maybe when I’m clean, she’ll join me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Fuck’s sake. If there’s more trouble at Dom’s, I swear to God, I’ll murder the next mouthy fucker that darkens the door.
I pluck it out.
Mam.
I sigh and cancel the call. I’m not in the mood for wedding talk. Not when the woman I’m marrying is somewhere in this house and I’m desperate to devour her.
A text pings in right away.
Frankie knows.
