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This man is leaner than the first. Just as tall and wide-shouldered, but not as bulky. A quarterback to the other’s defensive lineman. His hair is dark gold. It looks carelessly styled, as if he dragged his fingers through it instead of using a comb. His beard is a darker shade, closer to bronze, covering an angular jaw. One of his nostrils is pierced with a small metal ring. He’s incredibly handsome. Half aristocrat and half bare-knuckled street fighter, he exudes a kind of raw, brutal power, unmistakable even from this distance. Clearly visible above the collar of his starched white dress
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She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes. She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle. Irritatingly, I’m intrigued. The last thing I want to deal with is a strong woman. I learned the hard way that the stronger a woman is, the more likely she is to break a man’s balls. Or his heart.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this. Until she walks in the door. Dark hair, red lips, olive skin. A black, low-cut dress. Acres of cleavage. Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust. If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is. I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
She scoffs. “Don’t I know it. What I mean is are you violent?” “I’m second-in-command of the Irish Mob. What do you think?” She swallows, glances away, then meets my gaze again. She moistens her lips. “I … I meant with women.” And here we have it. I glance down at her left hand, at the circle of black ink on her ring finger, and finally understand what this inquisition is all about. My voice low, I say, “I’m not your dead husband.”
“If he was so nice, why did you skitter over to me like a scared baby mouse?” She pauses. “I mean … have you seen him? The guy’s totally intimidating. Like big and … I don’t know … all that. I thought I might get pregnant just sitting next to him.”
“But … did you even like the wee lass? I mean … were you attracted to her?” No. Which is why it’s so perfect. The last thing I want is a wife I’m attracted to. Like Reyna, for instance. I’d never be able to focus on anything else if I were married to a woman like that. All I’d be able to think about would be that fine arse and those gorgeous tits and holding her down so I could shove my hard cock inside her beautiful wet cunt.
“Unbelievable,” Kieran mutters. “Don’t say it.” “This is about Riley, isn’t it?” “I said, don’t say it. Drop the bloody topic.”
Quinn crosses the kitchen and extends his hand to her. He says respectfully, “It’s my honor to meet you, ma’am. I’m Homer.” I nearly fall face-first onto the kitchen floor. First, because Quinn is acting like a human for once—not the ape I know him to be—and second, because … Homer?
He glances at my mouth and licks his lips. This is when I realize I’m at eye level with his crotch. And that enormous bulge straining the seam of his trousers.
The most important one being that if he knew Lili was in the house all along, why did he stay and eat supper with me? “Oh my God,” I say aloud, horrified. “Does that son of a bitch think he’s getting a two-for-one special?”
She’s smart, she’s sexy, and she’s got an arse on her I’d like to bite, spank, and fuck. Even worse, every time I look at her too long, my dick gets hard as a rock and my mouth starts watering. That settles it. I’m never speaking to Reyna fucking Caruso again.
I suck in a breath. My nipples tighten. My entire body erupts into flames. Our eyes lock, and suddenly, the carousel, the music, and everything around us disappears. It’s as if nobody else in the world exists but the two of us. The two of us and my aching vagina, which just now arose from the dead to start howling with need. For him. This awful, arrogant Irishman. Who’s betrothed to my beloved niece. Who’s madly in love with the pool boy. I understand with chilling clarity in that moment that none of this is going to end well.
I’m no stranger to sexual chemistry. I’ve felt desire before, many times. But this is something different. This is the strike of the match that lit the raging forest fire. This is dark, intense, and dangerous. This is need, not want … and I don’t like it at all. In fact, I fucking hate it. Maybe even as much as Reyna hates me.
don’t want to feel anything—that’s the whole bloody point! I wanted an arranged marriage so I’d never have to feel anything for a woman again. The last woman I felt something for was kidnapped because of me. She was shot because of me. She wound up in Russia, impregnated by her Bratva assassin fucking kidnapper, all because I failed to keep her safe.
With my cursed luck with women, I know better than to ever let feelings get involved in my relationships again. Yet here I am with my bloody idiotic divining-rod dick blasting at full speed in the direction of a woman they call the Black Widow. A woman who’s like a mother to my soon-to-be bride. A woman who hates me with a burning passion. A woman who can never, ever be mine. I yank my hands from her body and turn away, wondering what the fuck I ever did to make God hate me so much.
I stand there with my dry mouth and my pounding heart and my utter confusion, which is only slightly less severe than my guilt. I wanted Lili’s awful fiancé to kiss me.
was raised in the Cosa Nostra. All the women are in the same situation I was. That Lili is. We’re auctioned off like assets to men who don’t know how to love.” “Or ones who just can’t bear to be broken again.” He lets that hang in the air between us, crackling like a live wire. I stare at him, speechless. I simply can’t find any words.
He’s been hurt so badly, he doesn’t think he can survive it again. Everything I thought I knew about him was wrong.
When he stands and loosens his tie, I’m still under control. It isn’t until he unbuttons his black dress shirt and pulls it off that I almost topple over backward in a dead faint. The muscles. Good God, the muscles. His chest is broad and rock-hard. His nipples are pierced with small silver studs. His abs look like they were carved from marble. His shoulders are wide and his biceps bulging. Everything is hard, defined, and tight. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him. And the tattoos. Mercy, the tattoos.
“It will heal better if the sutures aren’t pulled too tightly. Knots make them pull.” “How do you know that?” I mutter, “Years of personal experience on my own body.” I’m about to draw away, but he grasps my wrist and holds it, his grip firm but not tight. Startled, I look into his eyes. They’re blazing with emotion. He says gruffly, “I’d like to kill him.” “Who?” “Your husband. If he were still alive, I’d kill him for you. And I wouldn’t make it quick.” That takes my breath away.
I can still see Quinn’s face when he said, “I’d kill him for you.” I still hear that rough, urgent tone in his voice, see his burning, beautiful eyes. All of it will be seared into my mind forever.
I also meant what I said when I told her I never wanted to see her after the wedding. That was the God’s honest truth. Because every second I spend in that woman’s company is a reminder of all the reasons I agreed to an arranged marriage in the first place.
“Will you please stop calling me ‘woman’ like it’s a bad word? I hate that!” His piercing gaze on mine, he replies softly, “I’ve never said it like it’s a bad word. It’s the most beautiful word in the language.”
He closes his eyes briefly, shakes his head as if he’s regretting the entire conversation, then heaves a sigh. “In the Old World, when someone really wants to send a message, they wipe out an entire family tree, top to bottom. Grandparents, parents, children, husbands, wives … every living generation related by blood or marriage to the one who caused the offense.”
Dragging a hand through my hair, I exhale heavily. “When I was a young man, there was a time when all I did was think about dying. I wished for it, every day. I’d put myself in all these crazy situations, tempting fate.” My chuckle is dark. “I was suicidal.” “Why is that funny?” “Because I could easily kill another man, but I never found the guts to kill myself.”
“Oh, Quinn. Not killing yourself wasn’t an act of cowardice. It was an act of courage. It takes so much more bravery to keep living when you’re in pain than it does to give up.”
She links her arm through mine and leads me into the church, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Quinn. As soon as we’re out of earshot, she murmurs, “A word of advice? Stay away from Boston for a while after the wedding. Like, forever.” I’m not sure I want to know what she means, but I ask anyway. “Why?” “Because, babe, any man who looks at a woman the way Spider looks at you is already thinking about how he’s going to ruin his life.”
I don’t look at Quinn. I want to, badly, but I don’t. If what Sloane said is true, then this insane carnal attraction I feel toward him is mutual. And very obvious.
Unless Quinn gets a wife. Oh shit. I knew today was going to be a nightmare. I drag a deep breath into my lungs and give my life away. It’s not the first time I’ve done it, but it is the first time I’ve done it for a noble cause. Saving three lives counts as noble, right?
Lili has a girl’s figure. The person walking down the aisle has the full, dangerous curves of a woman. My heart makes one final, painful squeeze inside my chest, then drops dead. Declan says, “Sweet Mother Mary. Looks like there’s been a change of plans.”
“And I’m not comfortable taking a wife who thinks she’s not going to have to sleep with me.” She closes her eyes and mutters, “Jesus Christ, Quinn, you’re killing me.” Leaning close to her ear, my heart pounding like mad and my dick aching, I murmur, “If I marry you, Reyna, I get to fuck you as hard and as often as I want.” “Oh my God.”
“I’ll marry you. But if you decide to kill me, wait until tomorrow.” She arches a brow. “Because?” “Because I need to feel those sharp claws of yours dig into my back at least once before I die.”
The priest sighs, shaking his head. “Very well. Do you, Homer, take this woman—” “I do.” “Hold your horses, lad,” the priest mutters. “This isn’t a bloody race.” He exhales hard and starts again. “Do you, Homer—” “I do.” “—take this woman, Reyna—” “I do.”
It glitters there, big and bold, red and brilliant, as vivid as a drop of fresh blood. Shocked to see the red diamond, I whisper, “You said you bought one of the pink ones.” “I did. I returned it for this one.” “Why?” He gazes down into my wide eyes with the full force of his potent masculinity engulfing me. “I decided I needed something to remind me every day that my heart can’t be trusted. What could be better than a stone the exact color of your lips?” That makes me lightheaded. “It’s lipstick, you big dummy. Also, that makes not one iota of sense.”
My voice shaking with emotion, I say, “I’m not good and I’m not a girl. I’m not yours, either.” Chuckling softly, he presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “I’ll concede the first two. But you’re definitely mine.” Just for an added little fuck-you to make his point, he drawls, “Mrs. Quinn.” That right there tells me all I need to know about how this marriage is going to work. I never knew before this moment that enemies with benefits is an actual thing.
“Viper. My lovely, lethal wife. You’re fucking perfect, inside and out. Don’t ever worry about disappointing me. You couldn’t. Even when you’re homicidal or hurling insults, you take my breath away.”
“Quinn, please, wait—” But it’s too late. I’ve already seen it. The tattoo is large and vivid, snaking all the way down her spine from her nape to the small of her back. It’s a twisting, thorny vine of red roses and delicate black leaves, branching out from the center in all directions. It’s staggeringly breathtaking, not only for the intricacy and artistry of the ink, but also for the stalk from which each flower blooms. A scar. Her entire back is covered in raised white scars, each a finger’s width and about as long.
“Reyna.” Her voice low but steady, she says, “He liked to use a whip.” I can’t catch my breath. I’m so stunned and sick at the realization of what she must have gone through, what she suffered at his hands, that I can barely see straight.
Then she stands, pulls the veil out of her hair, tosses it to the floor, and steps out of the dress. It slithers down her legs and pools at her feet, sighing softly as it settles against the carpet. She stands in front of me naked except for a simple pair of white cotton panties. And more fucking scars. On her stomach. Across her ribs. Under both breasts. Her arms and legs are smooth and so are her chest and neck, but the rest of her body is marked with the ghosts of her past, a hundred mementos of suffering. It’s like looking at tombstones in a graveyard. I’ve never cried in my adult life,
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“Don’t you dare look at me with pity. I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. I’m alive. There are millions of other women just like me who weren’t so lucky.” I exhale a disbelieving breath. “Lucky.” “Yes,” she says vehemently. “And grateful. And determined I’ll never waste another second of this life I won. So get your Irish ass over here and fuck me, or I’ll divorce you so fast, it’ll make your head spin.”
Later on, I’ll look back and realize this is the exact moment I f...
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“My sweet viper,” he murmurs against my mouth. Gazing down at me, he says something in Gaelic that I don’t understand. “English, please.” “English doesn’t have the right words.” “For what?” “How beautiful you are.”
The name of the man who looks at me like I’m a sunrise and laughs when I threaten to end his life. The man whose ego is so big, it could flatten a city, but whose heart is so tender, it broke when he saw my scars. The man I know almost nothing about except that he’s sweeter than any made man should be. Under all his macho swaggering, past his comic book superhero good looks and beyond his armor of snark, there lies a soul that aches with loneliness. Just like mine does. Or did, until right now.
“I’ll kill anyone who ever disrespects you. I’ll kill anyone who even looks at you the wrong way. If anyone so much as annoys you, I’ll put a bullet in his skull and throw his body into the Charles River. You never have to fight your own battles again, viper, understood? I’ll fucking destroy any dumb motherfucker who ever dares to even make you frown.”
“Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous. My sweet girl. I’d kill an army for you. I’d burn down empires and lay all their gold at your feet.”
“I guess I like that they’re written for women. The whole world is made to please the male gaze, but romance novels only care about what we want. What we need. They’re specifically for our pleasure. Some of the stories are great escapist fantasies.”
What’s your favorite type of storyline?” “Oh, that’s easy. Reverse harem.” His brows draw together. “What the bloody hell is reverse harem?” “Where one female has multiple male sexual partners.” He freezes. His nostrils flare. His lips thin, and a dangerous glint appears in his eyes. He growls, “Two things you should know about me. One: what’s mine is mine. Two: I don’t share. Three: see numbers one and two, woman.” I laugh. “God, you’re easy to provoke. I was only teasing you.”
The way he’s wrapped around my body—legs, arms, and that big rough hand around my neck—should make me feel panicked. Or cornered, at least. Like a hunted fox, staring down its bloody end. But all I feel is sheltered. Secure. As if his body is a shield instead of a weapon that could do me harm. For the first time in my life, a man feels not like war to me, but like home.
“I think you’re a brilliant golden sun in a sky that’s only ever known the black and starless night.”
He says gruffly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, lass.” “I know,” I say softly, gazing up into his eyes. “It’s okay.” “It’s not. It’s never okay. I—” “You’re not him,” I interrupt. “You’ll never be him. That was an accident, which is very different. Okay?” I know I was right about what he was thinking when he hangs his head and hides his face in my neck. He whispers, “I’ll kill anyone who ever hurts you. Including myself.” “I’ll remember that the next time your ego flattens me. Also, that’s disturbing.”
