Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Dangerous Doms)

by Jane Henry

  Swallowing hard, I don’t answer. I’m suddenly dizzy with nerves.

  I can handle pain. I’ve withstood it many times. But I hate the anticipation of something terrible. I’d rather face it already.

  He unfolds his arms, crooks one large finger at me, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

  “Come here.”

  I don’t have a choice, do I? I walk to him on wobbly legs, shaking as he watches every step. When I reach him, the light reflects in his green eyes. Still stern. Still immovable. But there’s something more in those depths now. Curiosity?

  “It would go well for you if you do exactly what I say.”

  I nod. “You’re about twice my size and have a bag of weapons. It would be rather foolish of me to try anything else.”

  “It was rather foolish of you to run away.”

  I clench my jaw and don’t answer. He has a point, goddammit.

  Wordlessly, he reaches for my wrists and shackles them in his strong fingers. Holding me in his tight grip, he looks to the post with the rings above it, then to the table and shakes his head, as if dismissing the notion. Not the post, then. If he weren’t so strong, I might feel relieved. I’m sure that thing’s a whipping post.

  “Right, then,” he mutters. “You’ll lay over the table.”

  I balk, my mouth slackening as I stare at him.

  “Excuse me?” I whisper. It hadn’t occurred to me he could violate me in this room. Bent over the table, he could rape me easily.

  “You have thirty seconds,” he says. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

  “My future husband will not be pleased with this, you know,” I say, my words tight with anger. “I’m to be married after I’m punished.” A lump forms in my throat at the prospect of my impending humiliation.

  “I’m not going to fuck you. I’m going to flog you.”

  I shudder.

  He glances at his watch. “Twenty more seconds.”

  I don’t bother to wipe the tears that stream down my cheeks. I’m not trying to appease or persuade him. If I grin and bear it, as the saying goes, he doesn’t win. He might beat me, but he won’t take my pride.

  I stalk to the table, flop my body down on it, and close my eyes. Embracing my anger. If I wear it like a cloak, he can’t hurt me. Nothing lasting, anyway.

  I’m shaking, my body trembling against the cool table, splayed out like this… like an offering. I listen for the sound of something, the tug of the zipper on his bag, something at all that will indicate how he’s to punish me. But all I hear is his voice.

  “You’ve earned this for what you’ve done. Your reckless, thoughtless decision endangered the lives of countless. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Must he lecture so?

  Anger is my weapon and friend.

  “Fuck. You.”

  Crack.

  The blistering pain sears me.

  “Silence now.”

  I grit my teeth. Did he strike me with his… hand?

  “If you want me to be silent, don’t ask me questions.”

  Crack. He lands another blow, then another, until he’s given me so many hard, blistering swats, I lose count. I whimper, biting my tongue. I’m an idiot to mouth off to a man his size, who’s got everything from power and strength to weapons on his side.

  I gasp when his rough, toughened hand caresses my inflamed backside, and he leans his heavy, muscled body against me so he can whisper in my ear. His rumbling voice makes me shiver.

  “I’ve been sent in here to punish you before I deliver you to your future husband. I won’t mark you. I won’t deliver damaged goods. But I want this to make a good impression. You’re to obey your future husband. Consider this your first lesson.”

  I still. It’s an odd thing for someone sent by Martin to punish me to say.

  Did the rival Clan send him to me, then?

  A terrible, alarming thought resurfaces.

  Will he rape me as punishment?

  But no… no, he can’t. My future husband expects a virgin. We were never allowed even unsupervised dates as teens, and my father was adamant: his daughters would stay untouched until they married. It wasn’t until he married off my oldest sister that I knew why.

  My new husband will have to take my virginity... Still, I’m not safe here.

  Why did he send the others away? Does he mean to violate me?

  And then I hear it, the sound I’ve been dreading, the whirr of a zipper. Oh, God, he’s going to fuck me.

  “If you rape me, my future husband will kill you.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I look to the side and breathe out in relief. It wasn’t his zipper but the bag’s.

  My relief is short-lived when I hear the clink of metal. I grip the table and grit my teeth, preparing myself mentally for what’s going to happen. I’ve withstood worse. I likely may still. I can do this. And then pain explodes and my mind erases with the first excruciating crack of something against my skin.

  I cry out in pain, but I can’t get away. I twist and writhe, but his firm hand on my lower back holds me in place, delivering one wicked blow after another. I can’t think beyond the pain, and even my breath seems frozen in space and time as I drown in pain. He’s lecturing, the fucker, prattling on and on about orders and rules and war and blah blah blah, but I can’t process a thing he says. My world is agony.

  He strikes me over, and over, but never in the same place, whatever he’s using to punish me is thin and supple, because it’s on my legs, it’s on my arse, he’s dragging it across my throbbing skin. I gasp for air when he pauses. Has he given me momentary reprieve?

  “Why are you being punished?”

  Goddamn it, the lecture again.

  “I left,” I gasp. I lay still. I’m in too much pain for a snarky reply now.

  His hand comes to my lower back. “Very good. And why must you never do such a thing again?”

  “Because I’m…” I can’t speak, my throat suddenly clogged with unexpected emotion. I swallow hard. I don’t mean to defy him. It would be foolish to do so on purpose, not when I’m vulnerable like this. He asked a question and expects an answer. So I push myself to speak through tears. “Because I have no choice in this.”

  Unbidden tears splash on the table.

  “That’s right,” he says, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but is that sympathy I hear? A softening to his tone?

  “Easy for you to say,” I say, angry tears rolling down my cheeks. But to my surprise, he doesn’t strike me again but pauses.

  “Oh? Is it? You know nothing about me, and yet you believe it’s easy for me to say?”

  “You’re a woman with no freedom?” I ask, turning my head to look over my shoulder at him. He stands behind me, holding some sort of wicked-looking black rod in his huge hand.

  He scowls at me. I continue.

  “You’re to be married to a monster?” For the second time, I wish he didn’t have a mask, that I could see his reaction.

  “Quiet,” he snaps. “This is punishment, not negotiation.” And holding my eyes with his, he lifts his arm back, before swinging the whistling tool through the air. I cringe and yelp. God, but it fucking hurts. I’m a fool to snap at him when he wields a weapon against me, but sometimes I can’t shut my mouth.

  There’s no more talking, then, and at least I’m grateful he’s stopped the damn lecture. He holds me in place and whips me again, until nothing in my world is in focus but blistering, heated pain.

  I’m not sure when he stops. I’m not conscious of the moment the pain ceases. I’m panting, sliding on the table now wet with tears and perspiration.

  His voice is hard and sharp when he addresses me. “Have you learned your lesson?”

  “Yes,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Very well, then. I’ll tell Martin you’ve been thoroughly punished.”

  I lay where I am, prepared for him to take a picture or take some such mortifying record of my humiliation, but he doe
sn’t.

  It’s over. The brutality of it is over, anyway.

  “Come here.”

  Again, the order. I push myself off the table, my body throbbing in pain and discomfort, as I turn to look at him.

  His eyes narrow when he looks at me, before he reaches a hand to my face. His fingers are large and rough but his touch gentler than I expect. Cupping my chin, he stares and rubs a thumb lightly over my cheek. On instinct, I flinch, which makes him growl.

  “Who did this to you?” he asks.

  “What? Who did what?” I don’t know what he’s talking about. Does he wonder who’s made me balk at the touch of a man who just punished me?

  “This,” he says through gritted teeth, pointing to my eye.

  I lift my hand gingerly upward and feel the swollen, tender skin.

  Oh.

  “I’m assuming I’m bruised?”

  “Aye,” he growls. “Got a fucking black eye.” Does he fear my future husband will think he’s done this to me?

  “I’ll… I’ll tell the man I’m to marry you weren’t the one who did this.”

  Why do I feel the need to defend him? Why?

  He glares at me. My response didn’t placate him at all, apparently.

  “Who did this?” he repeats.

  It’s almost as if… he’s angry I’m hurt? Why would that anger him, when he’s just whipped me, humiliated me, and my body still throbs in pain?

  I don’t respond.

  “Your father?” He asks. I shake my head.

  “Mack Martin?”

  I shake my head again.

  He tenses. “Your brother?” When I don’t respond, he curses. “Fucking Blaine.” He mutters something under his breath I don’t catch.

  He knows him, then. Of course he does.

  “Let’s go,” he says, his gaze still implacable, his tone still granite.

  He takes out his cell phone.

  “The lass has paid her dues,” he says. “We move on as planned.”

  I look at him strangely. Something is odd about this. Something is off.

  Who is this mysterious stranger? I don’t know enough about the Clan to know who they send as executioner or punisher, who their strike force may be. It’s unnerving.

  The men left, though. They weren’t surprised by his presence at all. And the men of the Clan, especially my brother, would not have left unless ordered to do so.

  “Who are you?” I ask him. I need to know. I imagine my future husband sent someone out to do his dirty work for him. Will this be someone I’ll share residence with? A mate of his? Maybe he’ll think it fun sport to share me with his brothers. I cringe to think of what awaits me next.

  I expect he’ll ignore me, but he doesn’t. Instead, says in a low voice, “You’ll see soon enough. Come with me.”

  Chapter 5

  Cormac

  I want to marry this woman now. I want to take her with me, make her mine, carry her away to my home in Ballyhock. Away from the men who hold her prisoner. Away from Martin and his filthy, conniving band of manky sons of bitches.

  If her brother shows his motherfucking face, I’ll make him lose the few teeth he has remaining before I slit his thick, meaty throat. Happily.

  She’s learned her lesson, I’ve no doubt. I reckon she’ll remember the way she squirmed under the cane I wielded. Christ knows I won’t forget it. For the first time since we’ve started all this, I’m grateful for the fucking duty I have to fulfill. I’m eager to claim the beautiful, innocent girl for my own.

  And she is a fucking girl, her virginal body untouched. It’s a requirement for any arranged marriage between Clans, of course. But now that I’ve seen her, now that I’ve glimpsed her luscious curves and milky white skin, I long to take her beneath me, to fully claim the lass as mine.

  She’s nine years my junior. The first time I took a man’s life, she was still in fucking grade school. But it’s no matter. Age is just a number for anybody. It’s even truer in families like ours, when social norms and expectations are shite.

  I can imagine her smooth, soft skin beneath my palm, covered by thin fabric when I braced my hand on her lower back, when I wielded the cane on her upturned arse. I can still hear her soft cries, still feel her flinch in pain when the rod connected.

  I whipped her soundly, and I’d do it again if I had to. And now something deep inside me wants to make it better. To wipe her tears and soothe the pain.

  I wonder how she’ll react when she realizes who her punisher is.

  I take her hand and lead her to where my men wait in silence. I’ve got to give her credit. She holds her head high, unblinking, though she winces a bit when she walks.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “To meet your future husband, lass. You’re to be married now. Thought you knew that.”

  “Like this?”

  She gestures to her mangled clothing with her one free hand, the other pinned firmly in my grasp on her wrist.

  I shrug. “That’s not part of my job. Though I reckon someone’ll fix you up first.”

  We walk in silence for another moment before she asks another question.

  “Do you know my husband?”

  “Aye.”

  She swallows hard. “You work with him, then.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Is he… is he an evil man?”

  Christ, the way she feigns bravery but can’t mask her shaky voice raises my ire. What have the fucking Martins told her about me? But I want to see what she’s made of.

  “They’re all evil, aren’t they?” I say truthfully. “You’re talking fucking mafia.”

  She swallows hard. “I know, but…” her voice trails off as if she’s trying to collect her thoughts. “I thought… it’s just that… well, some are more evil than others.”

  She isn’t wrong.

  We both grow silent as we go up a flight of stairs. I was told to bring her to the library when we were finished. At the very top, we’re greeted by two of Martin’s brainless, beefy henchmen. They wear suits, their weapons drawn, both parked at either side awaiting us. They don’t acknowledge us at all but stand stock still.

  “You don’t recognize them,” she says. “They didn’t greet you. You’re with the McCarthys, then.”

  She doesn’t miss much. Very observant.

  Martin greets us when we enter the hall, his voice tight and controlled. “She’s been punished, then?” he asks, his voice laced with utter disdain, as if he wishes he could have hurt her himself. Fucking bastard.

  “Thoroughly.”

  A muscle clenches in his jaw. He sweeps his eyes over to her. “Good,” he says. He looks at her as if she’s distasteful, pursing his lips and grimacing. “She ought to remember her place now.”

  “Aye,” I growl.

  I look over Martin’s shoulder to see Keenan standing, his eyes narrowed on Martin. “Hand her to me. I’ll see to it she’s brought to the ceremony and waits for her betrothed.”

  I push her toward him, I’m that eager to get him away from Martin. She stumbles, and I take a step toward her to steady her. I right her. Martin’s narrowed, beady eyes watch my every move.

  “I’ll be sure she—” Martin begins, but Keenan already has her, chastely holding her elbow and taking her toward the exit. He’s the one in charge now. Not Martin.

  “Your husband will be arriving shortly,” Keenan says. “You’ll be cleaned up before you’re presented to him.”

  Aileen still holds her head high. She doesn’t make eye contact with Keenan, or Martin, or any of the other soldiers who stand and witness her being handed off, but keeps her gaze transfixed, her eyes on something in the distance. I tear myself away, turning back to a changing room on the main floor where I’ve left my clothing.

  Though I stepped in to be sure that none of them touched her, she’ll know I was the man who whipped her. And part of me is pleased at that.

  After I dress, I go to the large room where both my men and the Mar
tins are assembled. A small area’s been prepared for us to take our vows. My mother waits at the front, standing beside Caitlin, but she doesn’t meet my eyes. Not yet. I wonder if she knows what I did today.

  Minutes pass. No Aileen. Though logically I know she’s likely being prettied up by her mother or other clan women, I won’t rest easy until I see her again. Until I cart her home and make her mine. Until I get her off this godforsaken property and onto mine.

  I find Keenan at the front, beside Father Finn, our parish priest and today’s presider. My father’s younger brother, he’s aged in recent months, his gray hair thinner, his eyes lined with wrinkles.

  Keenan nods to me. “She’s a brave one, Cormac,” Keenan says. “I’ll give her that.”

  “She headstrong and wily as well.”

  His lips twitch. “Aye. You’d do well not to lose that cane.”

  I snort, grateful for a chance to laugh. Today’s been bullshite. “Aye.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Nolan says out of the side of his mouth, standing beside Keenan.

  I grunt at him, silencing him. “The girl’s to be my wife in minutes. Shut yer fucking gob.”

  His eyes twinkle, but he obliges by shutting his fucking gob.

  I tap my foot and check my watch. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

  Fifteen fucking minutes.

  Martin’s getting restless, pacing near the cluster of chairs opposite the podium where Father Finn waits.

  “Where the fuck is she?” I ask out of the side of my mouth.

  “They’re gettin’ her pretty’s all,” Keenan says, but the grooves on his forehead furrow.

  “Who’d you give her to?” I ask.

  “Her mam,” Keenan says. “Relax.”

  One of Martin’s men suddenly turns, yanks the handle of the door, and leaves. I look to Keenan, then Nolan. What the fuck is that about?

  When we’ve waited twenty-five minutes, I’ve had enough.

  “Bring her, Martin.” He jumps at the sound of my voice and swivels to look at me from his pacing. “I don’t fucking care if she’s ready or not.”

  “She’s coming,” he says. “Stay patient.”

  “I’m fresh out of patience.”

  Several of his men stiffen, and one has the nerve to touch the butt of his pistol.