Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance: Dangerous Doms

by Henry, Jane

  “Keep your goddamn knickers on,” I tell them. “I’m not going to kill him. Not yet, anyway. But I came here for a reason, and I’ve no more patience. If you don’t—”

  The door swings open. The room falls into silence. An older woman appears in the doorway. I wonder if this can be Aileen’s mam. She looks older than Aileen, of course, her blonde hair silvery gray at the temples. And like her daughter, she sports a fucking bruise I can see even beneath her makeup.

  Goddamn motherfucking Martins. We’re ruthless men, and I won’t deny that. We’re not above disciplining a lass in our charge. Clearly. But goddamn it, my father would’ve castrated a man who abused a woman in our company, and Keenan would do the same. We were taught to respect our mam, to respect women, to provide for and take care of them.

  Never, never to abuse them.

  “We’re ready,” she says, turning to face me. “You’re her betrothed, are you?”

  I don’t trust this woman. There’s something about her that’s slippery, like she’s donned this demeanor just for me.

  “Aye.”

  She takes in a deep breath, then releases it, when a voice I recognize comes from behind her.

  “Can we skip the formalities and get this over with?”

  For one brief moment, so brief I almost miss it, the woman’s eyes turn snakelike, her lips thin, and her nostrils flair. “Of course, dear,” she says. “Come in.”

  I stop thinking for a moment. I can’t reason or speak. Aileen’s entered the room, and she’s fucking stunning. Clad in a dress with lace and pearls, it hugs her svelte figure, accentuating her curves and beauty. Her golden hair’s tucked up onto her head in little ringlets, a few fetching curls gracing her forehead, and a small veil of sorts is pinned to her curls.

  This is no radiant bride, though. Her jaw’s clenched, her eyes are narrowed, and her cheeks are bright pink with anger. She clutches a cluster of white flowers between her hands so tightly, they’re bruised and broken. She’s here begrudgingly. She’d likely rather be literally anywhere else on the planet.

  I stand up taller and look toward her, unblinking. It doesn’t matter. None of this does. She will be my wife by law. She will learn to follow the rules.

  Moving her blazing gaze from Martin to his men, she swivels her eyes on me.

  It’s almost comical, how she tips her head to the side with curiosity, the anger vanishing as she stares at me.

  What is she thinking? What does she see?

  Does she recognize me from the room? Soon enough, she’ll know I was the man who meted out her punishment. I’d rather her know sooner than later. If she’s to be my wife, I want her to fear me. I want her to know what to expect if she misbehaves. I want her to know her place.

  But my patience is gone. I’m not playing a nice guy, and I want to leave.

  I snap my fingers and point to the ground in front of me. “I’ve waited long enough. Come here.”

  She purses her lips and glares at me. Does the little vixen plan on defying me? In front of a room full of men, like this?

  She’ll regret that decision.

  But she isn’t given a choice, as her mother grabs her arm and half-drags her toward me.

  “So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. McCarthy,” she says in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Had to pretty her up, you see. Isn’t she lovely?”

  “Lovely,” I repeat through clenched teeth. “Let her go.”

  She releases her as if she’s on fire, fairly pushing her my way. Aileen stumbles in front of me, but I quickly grab her arms and right her, dragging her in front of me, my fingers so tight on her arms she winces.

  “Look in my eyes,” she hisses. “Hold my gaze.”

  I don’t take orders from her, so I look toward Father Finn. He knows the way of the Clan. He doesn’t flinch at the roughness in my tone or firmness of my grasp, but pulls out his book and begins the ceremony.

  “Look at me,” she repeats. While Father recites the opening prayer, I hiss out of the side of my mouth.

  “Don’t order me again.”

  “It’s your voice. It is. It’s you.”

  She’s caught on quicker than I expected.

  “You were the one who took me in that room,” she says. “You have the nerve to—”

  My grip tightens. “Be quiet, woman.”

  She fumes in silent fury until it’s time to state her vows. She mutters her way through them, and I mutter my way through mine. I don’t even hear the applause that surrounds us, as blood thunders in my ears. I’m only dimly aware of people standing and cheering around us.

  “Home,” I order. “Now.”

  It’s time I made the acquaintance of my wife beyond what I’ve already done.

  “The car’s waiting,” Keenan says.

  Her mother’s greedy eyes light up with excitement, and her father gives me a grim smile. For all he knows, he just sold his daughter to the devil, and all he cares about is how much money Martin pays.

  Despicable.

  I gather her up, satin and lace and pearls and all, and lift her in my arms. I don’t want to fight with her. I’ve claimed this woman. I’ve done what I came here to do. Now I want to leave with her and never look back.

  “Put me down,” she says, but it’s likely only a protest she feels she needs to make or can’t help, because she’s bright enough to know that isn’t happening.

  My men begin to disperse, heading to their vehicles. I’m grateful now there will be no reception. No celebration. This was a business meeting. No more, no less.

  I’m heading to the door when I feel someone grab my arm. I turn in surprise to see my mother. Her usually-gentle gray eyes look flinty, and her grip on my arm is firmer than necessary.

  “Cormac.” She spits the words out, her tone one I haven’t heard since I was a lad. She’s pissed at me. I’m pissed that she’s pissed. For Christ’s sake.

  I grunt in reply, still holding my tight-lipped, stunningly beautiful wife, who might as well be an ice queen.

  “Put her down.”

  “No.” The time for my mother to instruct me has long since gone.

  “A word with you, son.”

  “Aye, but you’ll speak to me in front of my wife, or not at all.” A part of me’s afraid if I put her down, she’ll run.

  Keenan grunts behind me, reminding me to watch my tone.

  “She’s a slight thing but no feather, mam,” I tell her. My wife curses in protest, kicking her legs, and tries to get down, but I don’t allow it.

  “Be gentle,” my mother chides me. “Please, son. Just because she’s yours, doesn’t mean that—”

  “Mam.” I shake my head at her when she opens her mouth to protest. Does she really not know me well enough to know this? “Just trust me.”

  “I don’t trust him!” Aileen shouts over her shoulder, and mam opens her mouth to speak again, but I don’t stay to listen.

  I’m carrying this woman home.

  I’m consummating our marriage.

  I’m teaching my wife what her role is now.

  Chapter 6

  Aileen

  I’m so angry with him I could spit.

  “Put me down,” I say, slapping at his wide, massive chest.

  He doesn’t even flinch, just walks down the stairs and toward the exit. I don’t bother to look to see who’s witnessing my humiliation.

  The jerk probably thought I wouldn’t know who he was, what he did. And to think, I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life with this arsehole.

  “I would’ve thought your punishment before your wedding would’ve subdued you,” he says almost thoughtfully. “Instead, it seems I’ve only raised your ire.”

  “I—you—we—argh!” I’m so angry, I’m at a loss for words.

  The jerk fixes me with a stern look, one brow arched with authority.

  “Noted.”

  Noted?

  What did he note?

  “I am fully capable of walking by myself like an adult!”


  “Certainly,” he says in the same infuriating, calm tone.

  “Then why don’t you put me down?”

  He shrugs. “I need the exercise.”

  The hell he does. He’s nothing but raw muscle because of course.

  “Oh, you’re funny.”

  His jaw clenches. Where are we going?

  “And you’re a brat.”

  “Am not.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, this time giving me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t tolerate backtalk, either.”

  My throat tightens and my nose tingles with the utter helplessness of the situation.

  “Of course you don’t,” I say, and to my horror, my voice wavers, and a lone tear falls down my cheek. “Reckon you’re fully prepared to beat me again, aren’t you?”

  For some reason, that seems to strike a nerve with him. His grip on me tightens, and his jaw firms, but he doesn’t speak.

  We walk outside and down the small flight of steps to where a fleet of sleek black cars await. My stomach twists with nerves. These cars speak of opulence and power. Prestige. Money. The Martins don’t have cars like this. It doesn’t give me hope, though, but serves as a stark reminder that my future is a wide open expanse of unknowns.

  “Ready, sir?” Someone in a uniform stands beside the car. If he’s surprised to see my ogre of a husband carrying me, he doesn’t show it.

  “Yes. Straight back to Ballyhock,” he says. Still, he doesn’t put me down but bends at the waist, and places me in the waiting car.

  Cormac. His name is Cormac. We’ve had no introduction, but I know that’s his name. And he’s my husband now. My husband, the man I just took tight-lipped, furious vows to.

  The lump in my throat grows. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.

  I’m relieved when he releases me, but the relief is short-lived, because after spouting off a variety of instructions to the driver, he joins me in the car.

  I turn from him, looking out the window and cross my arms on my chest.

  He slams the door and clears his throat. I suppose that’s some sort of barbaric bossy man signal to look his way, but I don’t bother.

  Make me, I think.

  “Aileen.”

  He spits out my name as if it’s the bitter dregs of a cup of tea.

  I don’t respond.

  “So this is how we’re going to play things, then?”

  That gets my attention. “Play things?” I repeat, still staring out the window, which is fruitless since they’re tinted and there’s nothing to see anyway, but I’m stubborn enough not to look at him. “I’m not playing at anything.”

  I can see his reflection in the window, though. He shrugs out of his suit coat and tosses it beside him, then reaches for a glass and decanter.

  “You wondered if I’d beat you,” he says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey.

  “Again,” I correct. I finally cave and turn to face him. I want to read his body language now.

  He swings his drink down in one gulp, sighs, then looks at me, his jade green eyes flashing. “What sort of man do you think I am?”

  “Think?” I repeat. “I know. You were the one who humiliated me.”

  “Would you have preferred punishment at the hands of Martin’s lackeys? Did you miss the bloodstains on the floor by their whipping post?”

  My stomach flips. Gross.

  It’s as if he thinks he did me a sort of kindness.

  I glare at him. “I would’ve preferred not to be punished at all.”

  “I see. Unfortunately, you left me no choice.”

  “Oh, really?” Does he think I’m stupid?

  In the same calm, placid voice, he responds. “Really. You weren’t mine yet. You were subject to be punished at their hands. I’ve seen what they’re capable of, and something tells me you have, too.”

  I have. Still, I refuse to grant him any sort of pardon, if that’s what he’s looking for.

  “You humiliated me.”

  He nods. “You put the lives of my men and your father’s at risk.”

  I look out the window in silence. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. What’s done is done, and my body still aches in remembrance.

  He doesn’t say anything else for long moments, sipping the drink in his hand. I continue looking out the tinted window.

  He finally breaks the silence. “What do you know of me?”

  I shrug. “Not much.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  I swivel my head to look at him, anger taking over once more. “My brother said you were a fat, manky son of a bitch.” It gives me some pleasure to repeat it.

  “Fat, manky son of a bitch,” he repeats, his eyes darkening. He holds my gaze thoughtfully, then places his glass down.

  He begins to unbutton his shirt. I watch as the buttons give way, the fabric revealing a crisp white t-shirt underneath. When he unbuttons the last button by his waist, he tugs the bottom of the shirt up, and takes it off. I let my gaze roam over him, while he sits in front of me in nothing but trousers and a t-shirt. I swallow.

  He’s sturdy and muscular, and… definitely not fat.

  Definitely not manky.

  The scent of his cologne fills the small interior of the car as he grabs the bottom of his t-shirt in his fist and yanks it up, over his head, and whips it to the side.

  “Do I look fat to you?”

  I swallow hard. “No.” He’s nothing but muscles and chiseled planes, his chest sprinkled with dark hair. Something unbidden stirs low in my belly, and my throat feels tight.

  His eyes narrow. “Manky?”

  I shake my head, unable to speak. He’s raw alpha male, in every sense of the word, the type of man women lose their knickers over. Too bad he’s a twat.

  “I suppose time will tell if I’m a son of a bitch.”

  “Suppose,” I manage to croak out.

  He holds my gaze for another minute, as the car bumps and rolls before he crooks a finger at me.

  “Come here, Aileen.”

  He likes this particular command, apparently.

  “Come… where?”

  He pats his knee. “Here.”

  My heart hammers, instinctive remembrance of having been punished once already at his hands. I know I’ve pushed this far enough. I don’t dare disobey him. Not after what he’s done, what I know he’s capable of doing again.

  “I can’t… I can’t stand in this car, I’ll—”

  “Do it.”

  The command reignites my anger. He’s used to being obeyed and has demonstrated what he’ll do if I don’t obey him.

  Not bothering to disguise my hatred, I make my way over to him. When I reach him, he wraps a hand around my waist and yanks me onto his lap. I wince. I’m still sore from the punishment he inflicted.

  His large hand travels to my arse, and he gives me a squeeze straight through the miles of fabric.

  I hiss in protest, but he doesn’t stop.

  His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks, commanding, though I can tell he is at least trying not to frighten me this time. “Do you know what has to happen tonight?”

  I close my eyes as if that’ll somehow stop me from facing what has to happen, what we must do.

  “Yes,” I say with resignation. I do know. Tonight, we consummate our marriage. If we don’t, our vows are considered null and void, and we’re right back where we started from. I might not want to be married to this jerk, but going back to my childhood home is not an option. I’d run away and become a penniless beggar before I’d allow that. And I know I’m fighting this, but I’m not stupid either. If I don’t stay with him and make our marriage valid, our Clans will war.

  He loops his arm around me casually, holding me to him. “Say it.”

  “You have to… we need to…” why is it so hard to say aloud? Why is he even making me?

  He squeezes my arse again.

  “Sex!” I gasp. “We need to consummate our union.”

  His
lips thin and he gives me a tight, angry nod. “Right. No matter what. Whether you want me to or not. Whether you hate me or not. Whether you agree, spread your legs and let me fuck you…” he pauses before he finishes. “Or not.”

  I’m no fool. I hear the implication. “So you’ll rape me, then?”

  “I’d like to avoid that particular option.”

  He doesn’t deny it. Cold fear spikes through me. I shiver and look away, but his large, strong fingers grasp my chin and drag my eyes to his.

  “I’m guessing that makes two of us, then. So think carefully about how you want this night to go.”

  I don’t understand. “It isn’t up to me, though. It’s up to you.”

  His hand still on my chin, his deep green eyes bore into mine. “You have far more choices in this than you think you do.”

  Before I can respond, the car cruises to a stop. I hear voices outside, doors shutting.

  We’re at his home. I know what has to happen next. I’m faint with nausea.

  I’ve been through many ordeals, including the punishment he gave me earlier today. I’ve been beaten and abused at the hands of my brother and my father. I’ve been manipulated by my mother and put up with her harassment and control. But somehow, knowing he’s going to fuck me tonight makes me quiver in fear, a violation I haven’t yet known. How will I recover?

  He releases me, pushing me onto the seat beside him, and dresses back in his shirt before we exit.

  “You’ll be meeting your in-laws and servants who’ll wait on you shortly,” he begins. “I expect your behavior to be polite and dignified. Understood? I’ll have none of that surly attitude from you, lass.”

  I huff out in indignation, when I feel his hand on my arm.

  “I said, do you understand me?”

  I think he somehow instilled fear in me with the punishment he gave me, for my heart does a quick beat in my chest at the memory, of him holding me down and wielding his palm and weapon on me.

  “Yes. I understand.” I’d rather be on good terms with them anyway.

  “Good.”

  And then we’re exiting the car, and I’m trying not to look at anyone. There are so many. Uniformed servants and men in suits, some that attended the service today and some that didn’t. Right before me stands a beautiful, black-haired woman holding a baby in her arms, and beside her a shorter woman with the McCarthy family green eyes and dark brown, wavy hair, full pink lips, and a ready smile.