Filthy Rich (The Five Points' Mob Collection, #2)

by Serena Akeroyd

As he got on with the ceremony, I tilted my head to the side. “I will make them pay for beating you.” She stiffened. “I-I…they didn’t.” “Bullshit.” Another flinch. “Don’t lie to me, Inessa,” I warned, and as Doyle droned on, I whispered, “They did a good job, but not good enough. You’ll dance in their blood if you want.”

She was mine to protect, mine to defend, just fucking mine. Unlike every other aspect of my life, I wouldn’t have to share her. Not with my brothers, not with the family, not with the Five Points. She belonged to me, and Eoghan O’Donnelly protected what belonged to him. That was a fucking fact.

Tears pricked my eyes at the thought, and I dipped my chin, whispering, “They can’t touch me anymore.” He stiffened at that. “You’re damn right they can’t.”

“You’re very handsome,” I whispered, my voice husky. He arched a brow. “Thank you.” His voice was toneless, but his eyes gleamed with humor. I felt gauche, very young and stupid, until he leaned into me, pressed a kiss to my temple, and whispered, “A handsome groom for a beautiful bride. We’re going to make the congregation weep.”

“You’re not the biggest monster I’ve come across.” Her words floored me. Fucking floored me. And not because I was jealous either. Our eyes met and held, and out of nowhere, a flame soared between us, arcing into being. The lust came as a surprise, but the depth of it? Annihilation. It razed me to the ground.

“You’ll lose your fucking hand if you touch my wife again,” I growled over his screams that had guards surging forward and guns being drawn.

“I vow that I will not betray you…so long as you don’t betray me.” The addition had him blowing out a breath, but he grabbed the scissors from me and mirrored my action. Blood spilled once more, more of it staining my dress, and he stated, “If you think I’ve betrayed you, before you think to break this vow, you will talk to me about it first.”

It was human nature for the good to blur and for the bad to stick out like a sore thumb.

No other fucker had touched her, tasted her, kissed her, screwed her. Every inch of her belonged to me. I never had to share her, hadn’t shared her with anyone. Every inch of her was innocent, mine to corrupt. Mine to teach. If brains could orgasm, then I’d just come.

“You touched her period. She’s mine to touch,” I snarled, my temper snapping off its leash at his paltry excuse. “You don’t lay a fucking finger on her, or I’ll consider this my barely touching you, and the next time, I’ll blow your fucking head off. Do you understand me?”

To the world, she was my possession, but the sense of belonging I felt was different than ownership at that moment.

I didn’t understand it, couldn’t explain it, but I figured some things didn’t need to be reasoned or defined. They just were. She was addictive, and she’d just reeled me in. Hook. Line. And sinker.

She laughed, nipped my bottom lip, then muttered, “Ignore it,” as she surged upright, our hands still united so she was on top, and showed me her appreciation for her gifts. I was a made man. I was a sniper. But through all the blood I shed, through all the violence I wreaked in our war torn city, I was so much more than either of those things. I was her man. Hers. And more importantly? She was mine. Forever.