Page 90 of Mine
‘No, but we do know the bastard has another shipment of women coming in.’
Rage ripples beneath my skin. ‘From where? And when?’
‘These useless fuckers didn’t know. Trust me, if they did, they would have spilled more than just blood and guts,’ he says casually. ‘But he won’t have gone too far if he’s expecting a delivery.’
The prospect sickens me to my stomach. To think Aoife’s father was prepared to trade her off to a man who treats women like currency. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the warehouse in Meath with Owen.’
‘I don’t need to tell you to be careful taking the trash out.’ I pace the bathroom floor. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, and if Rory can’t take us out physically, he’s not above squealing to the guards. ‘Bleach the place. Burn your clothes, shoes, everything.’
‘Yes, Mam,’ Ciaran teases.
‘Let me know if you hear anything.’
‘Of course.’
‘Be careful,’ I add, ‘all of you.’
‘Yeah, yeah. We love you too,’ he pauses, ‘fuck those tits, bro, please, do it for me.’ He laughs, then hangs up.
Fucker. I shake my head and pull up the security cameras at my place. Everything looks calm and quiet. Six of my men are stationed around the parameter, the rest must be with Ciaran.
There’s nothing I can do from here.
I reach for one of the hotel-crested toothbrushes and brush my teeth, then take a long hot shower. Even discussing Kavanagh’s disgusting deals makes me feel dirty. The Syndicate will prioritise finding those women and free them. It’s what we do best.
I wrap a towel around my waist, clean the steam from my glasses and head back through to the bedroom to my wife.
Wife.
I fucking love how that word sounds.
I love her laugh.
I love how I can still make her blush.
I love how she sounds when she shatters on my face, fingers and cock.
I love every damn thing about her.
And I refuse to let Rory Kavanagh or any other cunt in this world take her from me.
41
AOIFE
Iroll onto my side, running a hand over the soft sheets beneath me. It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Milan. With my husband.
I prise my eyes open to find Dominic manspreading across a leather tub chair beside the bed.
I startle, and he chuckles.
My eyes drop to his outfit—or lack of it, I should say. He’s wearing nothing but his dark framed glasses and a pair of black boxer briefs. His tattoo is on full display again, and the urge to touch it sets the tips of my fingers tingling. His huge hand is curled around an espresso cup, and his greedy gaze is eyeing me like I’m the last cake on the baker’s shelf. ‘Good morning, beautiful,’ he beams at me, like staring at me while I sleep is the most natural thing in the world.
My husband is gorgeous, powerful, witty, but he’s also pretty intense.
‘Were you watching me sleep?’ I glance down to check how much of me he’s actually seeing, not that he hasn’t seen it all already.
