by Monica James
“That’s the way!” Liam exclaims, clapping wildly.
Hugh grins, before taking off his T-shirt. The dim lighting in the entryway allows me to see the many scars across his chest. This fucker is a hard nut.
“So, what’re the rules?” I ask, keeping my focus on Hugh who bounces on the spot, cracking his neck from side to side.
“Don’t die,” Liam replies with a laugh, before Hugh advances and throws the first punch.
Instantly, I dodge his attack and belt him in the ribs. A pained hiss leaves him, but he’s soon to recover and launches an onslaught of punches. He connects with my chin, then my cheek. My head snaps back, the warm metallic taste of blood fueling the devil within me.
This is my dream come true—spilling Doyle blood.
We circle one another as Hugh suddenly realizes I can fight. His cocky attitude soon fades, and he focuses on winning something he thought was already won. He dives on top of me, but I kick him in the guts, sending him tumbling backward. My sensei would be proud.
I don’t hesitate and pin him to the ground as I connect with his face repeatedly. The sound, the feel, it’s all too much, and a savage rush of adrenaline courses through my body, fueling the fire in my stomach. My knuckles and my face are coated in blood, and I want more.
The back of Hugh’s head slams into the hard ground, and I know with a few more digs, he’ll go down for good. He desperately tries to fight me off, and when he grips my shirt in his fists, he soon gets the chance.
I don’t know why, but I take a juke at his wrist and what I see has me losing focus—a crucifix is tattooed on his left wrist.
How and why is this possible?
The moment of distraction allows Hugh to buck me off and switch positions so I’m the one now pinned to the ground. He belts me ruthlessly as he doesn’t like being made an eejit of. Hugh doesn’t like to lose.
Cian is swearing in French, which confirms this looks as bad as it feels.
“Had enough?” Hugh mocks, breaking my nose.
With blood gushing from my neb, I laugh manically. “Is that the best you got, motherfucker?”
Hugh roars, pinning one shoulder down to the ground as he continues to belt me.
It would be easier if I gave up as my head isn’t cut, and I know Hugh will kill me if I don’t submit. But suddenly, images of my mum, images of her being pressed into the carpet as some cunt rides her, slam into me, and I wheeze in air, desperate to breathe; just how she was.
I remember the way she extended her arm, her last desperate attempt to assure me everything would be all right.
I can’t let her down—not again.
I turn my cheek, seeing the tattoo on Hugh’s wrist as a clear fuck you, so with a new lease on life, I rear up and bite over it—hard. He presses the heel of his palm to my forehead, attempting to pry me off him, but I only bite down harder, tasting Doyle blood. It’s heaven on my tongue.
“Ye fucking cunt, get off me!” Hugh screams, the hand he used to lamp me, now frantically trying to free his wrist from my jaws.
I wrap my fingers around his wrist, holding him captive as I gnaw through skin and muscle. The bloodlust leaves me hungry for so much more. Only when I have a hunk of his flesh in my mouth do I release him, bringing up my knee to catch him with a nice ringsend uppercut.
His wheezes leave me lured, and I shove him off, coming to a quick stand. I spit out the lump of flesh in my bake. It lands at Liam’s Nikes with a wet plop.
Blood runs down my chin, and I slowly wipe it away with the back of my hand, never breaking eye contact with Liam. My chest is rising and falling quickly, my lungs desperately trying to catch up—I’ve never felt more alive.
Did I pass his wee test?
Hugh rolls around on the ground like a wee wain, and I curl my lip in disgust. His cries are music to my depraved soul. It takes all of my willpower not to kill this fucker, but not now. Things have only just begun.
Liam toes over the hunk of flesh before bursting into loud laughter. “Yer off yer nut!” he bellows, rushing over to me and slapping me on the back cheerfully.
“I just kicked the shit out of your brother, and you’re congratulating me?” I ask, bowed in half and clutching my side as I attempt to breathe.
“Aye, ya did what not many have done before. This is a cause for celebration.”
He offers me his hand, and as he does so, the cuff of his shirt rides up, allowing me to see that he, too, has the mark which suddenly doesn’t seem so rare.
A crucifix tattoo.
What? How is this possible?
It’s like one sprouted on Liam, seeing as I ripped into Hugh’s with my teeth.
My theory that Aidan took my ma’s life is now not so certain. It seems the Doyle men bear this mark, which means…any Doyle could be one of the three men I’m hunting. But first things first, I need to uncover the significance of this tattoo.
I thought it paid homage to their Catholic faith, but now, I believe it’s something else, and I will do anything to find out what that is.
Aidan bends down to pick up Hugh, but he slaps his hands away, not wanting any help. He’s feeling wick I beat him. He comes to a shaky stand on his own, looking shook. He clearly didn’t think I could fight.
In response, I press two fingers over my bake and blow him a smug kiss.
With a growl, he advances forward, but Aidan grips his forearm, stopping him. I wonder who Aidan is to the Doyles.
Liam digs into his pocket and asks for my number as he produces his mobile phone. I give him the number to my prepaid phone that can’t be traced back to me.
“All right, bucko, I’ll be in touch.”
And just like that…I’m one step closer to avenging my ma.
Cian and Rory don’t help as I turn and limp my way down the entry. They allow me to gloat in victory.
A part of me believes this is too good to be true—that just by kicking Hugh Doyle’s arse, I was able to fleece the Doyles and earn their trust. But when no one comes after me, it’s evident this spur-of-the-moment plan worked far better than I thought it ever could.
I take the corner and almost bump into Erin, who is having a feg. “Feck me, ya surprised me, Mike from America.”
Did she witness me belting her brother? If so, she doesn’t look awful upset he got his arse kicked.
“Well, thanks, I think.”
She laughs, turning a few heads with the sound. Erin Doyle, just like her brothers, has a magnetism surrounding her. But I’ll never be fooled by what she represents.
“I’ll be seeing ya then,” she casually says, but we both know there is nothing casual about this. A pact with the devil has just been signed. But the Doyles are unaware that devil is me.
“Later.”
My laidback farewell has her smiling.
With nothing further left to say, I continue my hobble toward the car with Cian and Rory following close by. When we’re out of earshot, Cian clucks his tongue.
“What the fuck is goin’ on with that? Y’ve just started a war, Puck Kelly.”
With a smile on my bake, I tip my face toward the heavens and inhale. A shooting star ignites the night sky, a sign of things to come.
“Keep her lit, lads, ats us nai.”
I shouldn’t be here.
Stopping in my tracks, I place a trembling hand over my chest and take three deep breaths, hoping it’ll help calm me down.
It doesn’t.
I’m going to be in so much trouble, especially after what I went through to get it, but it’s wrong. God knows, I need it, but it doesn’t belong to me.
Taking one last breath, I continue my walk toward the house or, rather, castle.
The Kellys’ home is utterly enchanting. It’s something you’d expect to see in a Disney film, but no Prince Charming exists behind these doors.
Puck Kelly, or Punky as I overheard Darcy call him, is anything but a gentleman. He is rude, arrogant, and a fucking arsehole. Yes, he has every right to be mad at me
as I did steal from him, but he was a jerk even before that happened.
So why am I here?
I owe him nothing, yet after last night, I can’t stop thinking about how underneath his anger, I sensed pain. The brooch means something to him, and I can’t hold onto it knowing that. This doesn’t make sense, but neither does my entire life, so carpe diem.
The rocks beneath my brown ankle boots crunch as I make my way toward the front door. I could leave the brooch in the mailbox, but if someone stole it, then all of this would have been for nothing. So I suck it up, straighten out my black dress, and ring the doorbell.
Children’s playful shrills sound in the distance.
I shouldn’t be here.
Turning quickly, ready to flee, I close my eyes and curse under my breath when the door opens. “Hi. Can I help you?”
An American?
Finding my courage, I turn back around and smile at the gorgeous woman standing in the Kellys’ doorway. “Er, hello. I’m sorry to bother you, but is…Punky home?”
The woman folds her arms across her chest, clearly sizing me up. I wonder what she sees.
“He’s not here,” she replies, and I get the feeling she doesn’t like me much. Is she Punky’s girlfriend?
A wave of…jealousy sweeps over me, though it’s completely irrational. I hate Puck Kelly, I remind myself. I’m only here to return what’s his. It doesn’t matter who he’s screwing.
So why do I have the sudden urge to pull out every strand of this stranger’s lush brown hair?
When she doesn’t offer to tell me where he is, or when he’ll be back, I get the hint. “Okay then, sorry to bother you.”
Suddenly, two curious faces peer around the doorjamb before creeping past the woman so they can get a better look at me.
“Hiya!” the girl says, smiling broadly. “What’s yer name? I’m Hannah.”
“Yer pretty,” the boy quickly follows. “I’m Ethan.”
I can’t help but smile because these two are absolutely adorable. “Hi, Hannah, I’m Poppy. It’s nice to meet you. And thank you, Ethan, I think you’re pretty too,” I say to both of them.
“Boys can’t be pretty,” Ethan replies, scrunching up his cherub face.
Bending low, I wink. “And why not? They can be whatever they want to be.”
“You talk funny.”
Laughing, I give my attention to Hannah. “That’s because I’m from London.”
Her eyes widen before she whispers not so quietly, “Amber, she knows Paddington Bear!”
The stranger has a name. Amber. And Amber is pissed off I’m still here.
“Well, Poppy, if you’ll excuse me, I have to give these rug rats some breakfast. Sorry I couldn’t help you with Punky.”
“You know our brother? I love him soooooo much,” Hannah says, jumping on the spot. “He’s sleepin’.”
Looking up at Amber, I slowly come to stand at full height.
She’s just been caught out in a lie, but instead of apologizing, she simply stares, challenging me to call her out on it. She’s definitely into him. The green-eyed monster returns.
“He doesn’t live in here. He lives out back.”
“Ethan, that’s enough!” Amber scolds, gently ruffling his hair. “Come on, your eggs are going to get cold.”
“Bye!” the kids cheerfully holler, pushing past Amber and skipping down the hallway.
“Bye,” I reply, knowing what I’m going to do. “It was nice meeting y’all.”
Amber makes it clear she’s not closing the door until I get off her front lawn, so I smile and wave goodbye. I hear the door slam shut seconds later.
This should be an omen, that I should continue walking down this driveway and not go in search of Punky, who lives out back. But my feet disagree because when I think Amber has stopped manning the fort, I turn around and make a mad dash in the opposite direction of where I should be going.
I half expect the hounds to be unleashed, biting at my heels, or better still, Amber to come charging out, shotgun in hand. But none of that happens.
I keep running, and when I see a stable yard building in the distance, I realize what “out back” means. Punky lives out here as he clearly has no interest residing in the main residence. I have an inkling that’s because he doesn’t get along with his dad.
Last night, they barely said three words to one another, and when Connor did speak, I noticed the way Punky would either shift uncomfortably or clench his fist around whatever was in reach. I don’t see a Mrs. Kelly, which has me assuming she’s passed, and this brooch once belonged to her.
Tears well in my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away.
Once I’m close to the stable yard building, I come to a stop and catch my breath. I haven’t given much thought to what I’m going to say because I didn’t think I’d have the balls to actually come here. But I am here, and nerves suddenly overtake me.
I don’t know what it is about Punky, but he makes me nervous. But underneath those nerves, I can’t deny that there is an exhilaration I haven’t felt before. When he touches me—like last night when he ran his thumb along my lip—the noise, the chaos, it all fades into the background, and I feel…alive.
It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t. I barely know him, but I can’t deny Punky intrigues me.
He doesn’t realize how attractive he is, which, in itself, is a complete turn-on. He’s arrogant, yes, but that arrogance isn’t in the way he looks, but rather, the way he composes himself and the control he wields in everyday activities.
He’s tall, and his body is lean, muscular, like a fighter’s physique. I use this term because his face was bruised, but he was still standing, which has me believing he knows how to throw a punch. His eyes are the bluest in color, and he styles his tousled dirty blond hair in a way that accents his bad-boy look.
His piercings, tattoos, and bad attitude should all be a warning to keep away, but they just interest me all the more.
I stop overthinking and walk to the glass front door. I’m about to knock, but I notice the door is slightly ajar. I should not—absolutely should not—enter, but I softly push open the door before my brain has a say. I freeze because I’m suddenly hit with a delectable rich, sexy, and sensual fragrance—Punky.
Being in his private domain feels utterly sinful, and I like it. I want more.
Tiptoeing through his home, I take a look around, immersed in history with a modern-day feel. The exterior is brick, matching the main house, but the interior has been outfitted with modern white walls. There is wooden furniture and modern appliances, but what catches my eye are the beautifully sketched artworks adorning the walls.
One in particular fascinates me; it’s just a white canvas with charcoal lines, but the way in which those lines are sketched, I find myself lost in the silence while also deafened by the noise. I wonder who the artist is.
The furnishings and appliances are what you’d expect to find in most homes, but considering Punky shares these grounds with a castle, it’s modest in comparison, and I like it. He doesn’t show off his wealth. Everything in here has a place.
The mystery of Puck Kelly just continues to grow.
There is a beautiful chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, and I peer up at it, mesmerized by the sunlight streaming in from the windows and catching the low-hanging jewels. They send mini rainbows across the carpet, giving off the illusion that everything isn’t fucked up beyond repair.
Digging into my handbag, I run a finger over the rose brooch, not missing the similarities of it and the one tattooed on the back of Punky’s right hand. I can’t read what is written across his knuckles, and I have a feeling this was done with intent.
His tattoos are for him and not for the world to see. And I like that.
I’m about to leave the brooch on the kitchen counter as this was a bad idea and I’m clearly insane for even being here, but suddenly, it’s too late. The world is about to eat me whole.
The hair at the
back of my neck stands on end, and the room is filled with a spine-tingling spark, threatening to electrocute me where I stand. Just as I’m about to spin around, a pair of muscular arms wrap around my waist and draw me into a warm, hard, heaven and hell.
“See anythin’ ya like, Babydoll?” His voice is hoarse, honeyed, and goddamn, goose bumps prickle every inch of my skin, especially when I hear him use the nickname he’s pegged for me.
But I’ll be damned if he knows that.
“No, not particularly,” I reply with bite as I struggle to free myself. “Let me go.”
“Ack, I think not. What ye doin’ in my home?”
“I got lost,” I quip, ignoring the heat of his bare chest pressed against my back. “But I’ll be on my way.”
Punky laughs in response, hinting I’m not going anywhere.
He towers over me, and God knows, I should be frightened being held prisoner in his arms, but I’m not afraid. I’m aroused.
He tightens his hold around me, making it near impossible to breathe. Turning over my shoulder, I get a glimpse of a silver barbell in his nipple and script writing, which looks Latin, inked across his chest. Both have me biting the inside of my cheek to stop my whimper of approval.
“Yer not going anywhere until ya answer my question.”
His deep, honeyed Northern Irish accent does things to me that heat my cheeks, but I can’t be distracted. I’ve established that I’m incredibly attracted to Punky, but that shouldn’t deter me from the fact he is a downright arsehole who I want to slap half the time.
I know he won’t let me go until I tell him the truth, so I open my palm and show him the brooch. “Here, sorry I took it. Who does it belong to, anyway?”
I don’t want to make a fuss, so I play nonchalant. His grip on me slackens when he sees the offering.
“Ya wee thief,” he says, clucking his tongue but not answering my question.
“Sticks and stones, now let me go.” I struggle once more, and this time, he loosens his hold so I can break free.
Spinning around, I’m ready to slap his cheek for having the gall to touch me, but stop dead in my tracks when I see his face. If possible, he has even more bruising, but these cuts are fresh. What happened after he left the Duffys’ last night?