Tiernan: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Dangerous Doms)

by Jane Henry

Keenan: Your room will be prepared.

  I smile grimly. Thank you.

  I hear a scuffle of feet outside the door, guards put in place to keep anyone out.

  “You let me out!” Aisling screams behind me. “If you don’t, I’ll fucking scream until I’m–”

  “You will not.” My voice is casual, but it holds weight. She listens.

  Make my day, little girl.

  “Scream again, and I’ll gag you.” I go to the sideboard and pour myself a shot of Jameson. I inhale the pungent fumes, close my eyes, then down it in one gulp. I welcome the burning sensation that heats me to my belly, place the shot glass down, then grab a larger glass. She’s quiet as I pick up the ice with my tongs and drop it into the glass. I uncork the bottle of scotch and take my time mixing myself a drink. Once I’m done, I walk around in front of her.

  She sits across from a large, overstuffed armchair and a footstool. I place my glass on the table, sit down, and cross my ankles, watching her. Christ, even now, she’s gorgeous.

  The rope’s tight about her body, and the scant clothing she’s wearing’s torn. Her skin’s chaffed where she’s strained against the rope, reddened and puckered. I want to loosen her bonds, lay her out, and kiss the places where the rope dug into her, but even as I let my imagination roam, I can imagine what I’d do with those ropes. How I’d bind her. How I’d have my way with her, unable to stop me.

  Even with her wild blonde hair and her bright blue-gray eyes narrowed in anger, there’s something about her that draws me to her. She’s savage and fierce, nearly begging to be conquered.

  She opens her mouth as I sip my drink, and I hold up a finger.

  “Careful, Aisling,” I say, my tone laced with warning. “I meant every fucking word I said. You scream again, and I’ll gag you. Be a good girl, and I’ll untie your bonds. Now which will it be?”

  Chapter 6

  Aisling

  Somewhere hidden deep in the recesses of my mind, I remember who he is. And maybe even who I was. Tiernan, Fiona’s older brother, but I knew him when I was a different person, in another place and time.

  But right now, I can’t think beyond the pain in my body and my deep craving for a fix. Every single fucking night is when I get what I need.

  Except tonight.

  My limbs are shaking, and I’m agitated. My legs keep twitching, and even my neck can’t seem to stay straight. My heart is racing, my blood boiling, and it isn’t from anger. I need a fix. I need to ease the tremors in my body and ache in my heart. I need to numb the pain that courses through my veins.

  I’m breaking out in a cold sweat. First, I need him to untie me.

  “Please,” I say, my voice hoarse for some reason. Why is my voice hoarse? I have some dim realization that I was screaming, but I couldn’t stop myself until he threatened a gag. I can’t breathe with a gag, and the thought terrifies me.

  He watches me, his dark green eyes stern, narrowed on me. I know this is Tiernan, and if I were in my right mind, I’d know how to process that. But right now, I can’t think beyond the need to slide a needle in my veins and relieve the torment that riddles my body.

  “Please,” I repeat, closing my eyes because I’m crying, and I fucking hate crying. “Please make it stop,” I whisper.

  He watches me, takes another sip from his glass, then slides it on the table beside him. He rises, and for one brief moment in time, I let my gaze roam over him.

  He’s grown up, a full grown man now, the reddish hair darkened and a little on the longer side, and he wears a full beard. He’s all angles and planes and power, intimidating as hell with his muscled grace and strength as he walks toward me. He smells strong and masculine, like pine and whiskey and tobacco smoke, and as he nears, my body begins to respond. My shaking intensifies, as terror fills me.

  He crouches in front of me, resting his arms on his knees, his large fingers laced together. “Please what?” His voice is rough and deep, commanding my attention.

  I swallow hard. “The pain,” I whisper. My voice, in such sharp contrast to his, wavers. “Give me what I need. I’ll give you anything you fucking want.”

  The shaking stills when he reaches a hand out to me. He cups my jaw, his thumb tracing the side of my face.

  “You’re strung out,” he says, a note of unmistakable anger in his voice. “You’re fucking looking for a hit.”

  I close my eyes, and this time, even through my haze, I’m ashamed. He doesn’t know the girl I am now. He knows the girl I once was. I want to hide from him.

  “Please,” I whisper again, opening my eyes reluctantly to plead. “I’ll do bloody anything.”

  He shakes his head from side to side, and realization begins to dawn on me. I’m prisoner here. I won’t be able to escape. And there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to get what I need.

  Fury consumes me. I open my mouth and howl, tears of rage and hopelessness streaming down my cheeks. “Let me go! Let me fucking go! I’ll call the police! I’ll scream! I’ll fucking kill you, I swear to God I will!”

  He shakes his head once, from side to side, raises to his feet, and goes back to his drink. Unperturbed. Barely ruffled. He watches me with cold, narrowed eyes as he slugs the rest in one gulp. He slams the glass down on the table so hard it shatters, the only indication that I’ve affected him. But I don’t stop. I scream again, and again, even though I know I’ll regret this, because it’s the only release I can get.

  “Let me out!” My voice sounds as if it belongs to another person, so desperate, so pained it hurts even me to hear.

  “I warned you,” he says softly. “I don’t have what I need here, but I know where I do.”

  He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a knife. Oh God oh God oh fucking God he’s going to hurt me.

  “No!” I scream. “Hellllp! Somebody help me, please,” I sob and scream. “He’s going to kill me! Help!”

  “Stop that.” His voice is harsh like a cut from a whip. I freeze. “I’m not going to kill you, but if you don’t fucking stop, I am going to give you a bloody hard spanking you’ll remember.”

  I freeze. He means what he says, I know it. My thoughts don’t know where to settle, to fight him or push him even harder. A part of me wants him to strike me, as if it will somehow relieve the brutal pain that lashes at my insides.

  I watch him flick open the knife. He falls to one knee, muttering, “Ought to spank you anyway for having a fit like this.” He gives me a stern look. “There are women and children living here that don’t need to be scared witless by your screams.”

  If he only knew the torment I’m facing, he’d let me scream, unless he’s a monster.

  Is he a monster?

  I’m sobbing freely as the knife slashes my ropes. When he reaches for my arms, I flinch. He curses under his breath. I don’t catch the words.

  He’s rubbing my skin, and some of the burning eases, but just the pain on the surface. The internal burning intensifies, fire licking through my limbs. Soon, he’s got all of me unbound, the tattered ropes scattered around us. My body’s limp, as the fight goes out of me. I slump to the floor, but he catches me.

  I’m in his arms. I’m whimpering, curling up into a ball, then I splay out my limbs, but nothing I do eases the burn and pain and shaking. He lifts me up in the air and tosses me over his shoulder, but it scares the hell out of me. I scream and flail, and he quickly tugs me back down. He holds me to his chest, so tightly it almost makes the trembling better, but not quite.

  I whimper and tuck myself against him, crying freely. I want to scream again, but it doesn’t help, and I know he doesn’t like it. Even strung out like this, even terrified, I don’t want to scare any children, and he said that I could.

  We’re walking through the doorway, and the lights brighten. I hear voices, but they stop when we walk by. He’s rapping out orders like a drill sergeant, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. People shuffle to obey. I’m somewhere between consciousness and confusion. Who is he, that peopl
e do his bidding? Does he command them all?

  But I don’t care. I don’t care who he is or where we’re going. I just want the burning to stop. We get to the foot of the stairs, and I hear a voice I recognize. I can’t place it, though. I keep my head tucked into his broad chest, and I can’t stop crying. I won’t look at the familiar voice. It’s a woman’s voice, and she’s troubled. She’s crying. We’re both crying. Even through my pain, I want to give her comfort.

  Will anyone comfort me?

  He takes the steps two at a time, moving like a giant through the forest, people moving past him as he moves, voices ensuring his commands are obeyed. Up and up we climb, until we reach a landing. He moves down a hall. There are bright lights, flowers in a vase, a gorgeous carpet on the floor beneath us. I try to take in details, trying to ground myself, but I can’t. I can only cry.

  “Make it stop,” I whisper in a plaintive plea. “Please, for the love of God, make it stop.”

  He looks ahead with grim determination on his features. “I will,” he says with a sigh. “But not the way you want me to.”

  The sudden flare of hope in my chest immediately dwindles, and I cry even harder than before. I shove against him, but he quickly holds me tighter.

  “Stop that.”

  I can’t help it, though. I have to do something with my arms and legs that are filled with fire. They’re going to burn if I don’t fight. I push him and flail, crying freely, but his grip on me intensifies.

  A door opens, and on instinct, I grab at the frame. My fingers anchor onto the edge. Something tells me if he has me alone, I won’t ever leave this room the same again, and the demons that plague me urge me on, insidious voices that hiss in my ear like flames from a fire.

  Fight him.

  Run.

  Hurt him.

  Get away.

  He tries to tug me inside, and I’ve almost got him. He stumbles when I yank the door.

  “Put me down!” I scream. “Put me down!”

  With a savage tug, he yanks me through the door, turns, then kicks the door closed. He moves quickly. He must be strong to carry me like this, as effortlessly as if he were carrying a child. I’m whimpering and writhing against him, but there’s no getting away from his strong grip.

  We reach the bed, and he tosses me down. I scream and shake my head, tearing at the duvet and pillows. I can’t stop the burning in my body, and I have to do something with my limbs.

  “You’re out of your fucking mind,” he says, but his voice isn’t angry anymore. He seems surprised. He raps out my name sharply, startling me.

  “Aisling.”

  I sit up and look at him. His hands are on his hips, his eyes stern.

  “Stop that.”

  My hands are around a pillow. “Stop what?” I say. Every minute that passes hurts worse than the last. I collapse onto the bed, bury my face on the pillow, and weep. I sink into the pain and burning, unable to make it stop.

  “Please,” I sob. “Let me out of here.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I’m rocking on the bed, the pillow already dampened.

  He curses under his breath in Gaelic, shaking his head. He kicks off his shoes and sighs, then he joins me on the bed. He sits up against the headboard, the pillows at his back, reaches for me, then arranges me against him.

  “I’m not giving you what you want,” he says, with bloody unnerving calm, like a parent talking to a toddler in a fit. “But I’ll give you what you need.”

  “Like that’s supposed to bloody help?”

  He holds me to him with one arm while he takes his cell phone with the other.

  “It will,” he says. A moment later, he’s talking to someone on the line.

  For some reason, it actually does help being held by him. My face is pressed up to his chest, and his heartbeat’s steady. Even his voice, while he talks on the phone, seems to bring something soothing to my limbs. The old Aisling would be shocked at the nearness of Tiernan. But I’m not the girl I was then, and he’s a man now.

  I only catch bits and snatches of his words to whomever he’s talking to on the phone.

  “Sebastian… withdrawal…” Then he’s nodding. “Aye, right away.”

  He hangs up the phone and tosses it on the table.

  “We’re getting you food and water,” he says. “Are you still hot? Does it still burn?”

  I nod. It hurts too badly to do anything but nod.

  “We’ll get a shower for you while we wait.”

  I need to go home. Everything I need is at home.

  “I don’t want a shower, I want to go home.”

  He shakes his head and doesn’t respond.

  “You have to bring me home,” I repeat, as if maybe he didn’t hear me the first time and this will be the ticket to getting him to understand how important this is.

  “No,” he repeats, his tone firm.

  I smack at his chest, “I can’t stay here!”

  “You bloody well will, and we’ll talk about this when you’re in your right mind.”

  He picks me up again, swings his legs off the bed, then carries me into a large bathroom. The tile’s light blue, the accents silver, bright overhead lighting nearly blinding me. He turns the shower on, but I’m still fully clothed.

  “Take them off,” he says.

  I strip out of my clothes quickly. He scowls at the total lack of hesitation. I’ve used my body before to get what I need. When I’m fully naked, I turn to him.

  “I’ll do whatever you want if you let me go,” I whisper. I offer my full, naked body to him. I lift back my head and jut my body toward him boldly, my tits and curves on full display.

  His jaw firms. He points one finger toward the shower. “Get in there before I redden your damn arse.”

  The old me would’ve been embarrassed by this, I think. But I don’t care right now. All I know is, right now he means it, and I don’t want to push him to make good on his threat. I step into the shower, and turn it on cold.

  I lean up against the cool tile. The blissfully cool water feels so damn good, I sigh. It doesn’t relieve all the pain and fire, but some. I shake from the cold, but can’t bear the thought of the water getting any hotter than this, because it’s the chill that’s keeping the fire inside my skin from burning me.

  “Feels good,” I murmur. “Feels bloody good.”

  He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. I look over my shoulder to find him staring at me, his gaze steadily fixed on my eyes. Does he not like what he sees? I can’t be bothered by that now, though. I need more water. I turn my body to face the steady stream, my palms open upward, and close my eyes. The water flows and flows, a cleansing waterfall, washing away my tears.

  He slowly makes it warmer, and I can tolerate it.

  I rotate, but I’m shaking, and I stumble. I feel his hands on me, steadying me.

  “Come here,” he says, as he tugs me closer to him.

  I open my eyes. There’s bottles of soap and shampoo, and I reach for them on instinct. He watches me lather my hair. This is nice stuff, much better than the cheap bottles I get for myself.

  “Mmm, flowers,” I mutter to myself.

  “Lavender.”

  “’Tisn’t purple, though?” My words are distant and muddied. I note a corner of his lips quirks up.

  “Rinse your hair, Aisling,” he says, again with the patience one might have with a small child. “I’ve got tea and food for you in the other room.”

  “I don’t want to leave the shower,” I say. If I do, the burning will be worse, I know it. And it feels good in here, like the shakiness and pain are being washed away somehow.

  “You must. Come, now. Behave yourself, and do what I say.”

  I shake my head. I can’t. I don’t want to.

  With pursed lips, he reaches over me and yanks the knob. The beautiful, blissful stream of water comes to a sudden halt.

  “You’re mean,” I say, slapping at his hands, but he pays me no heed. “Leave it.”

 
He captures my wrist in his strong grip and pins my arm to my side. “Do not strike at me.”

  I feel chastened and hang my head. The smell of something warm and fragrant hits my senses, but my belly churns.

  “I don’t want to eat.”

  He only leads me out of the shower and wraps a towel around me. “That’s a girl.”

  I reach for the shower to turn it back on again, but he only takes my fingers and tucks them in his fist. “Ah ah,” he says, shaking his head. “Out here, now.”

  There are clothes laid out on the bed, pretty, pastel things that look soft and comfortable. I eye them warily. I’ve never worn things like that. I look down at my body, wrapped in a towel and look back at him.

  He hasn’t tried anything. He hasn’t so much as touched my breasts or my arse.

  “Are you gay?” I ask warily.

  He gives me a quizzical look. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t touched me.”

  “What kind of a douchebag would touch a girl strung out like this?”

  I don’t quite know how to process his response. Every man I’ve been with?

  “You don’t want me, then?”

  His brows draw together. “Get dressed, eat your food, and stop your questions.” One minute he’s gentle, the next he’s stern. I don’t know what to expect with him.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Didn’t ask if you were hungry,” he says, the stern voice back. “You’ll fucking eat, because it’ll help.”

  “You’re not my bloody father.”

  He only grunts and glares, then points his finger to the food on the bedside table. My stomach clenches. I’m not hungry.

  I dig in my heels. “If I eat, I might vomit.”

  He shakes his head. “You will not.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. He folds his arms across his.

  “Sebastian says you must,” he says. “Just a few bites of bread and broth.”

  “Who the fuck is Sebastian?”

  “Clan doctor.”

  “He’s not my doctor.”

  “He is now.” He glances at his wristwatch. “Now, if you haven’t put that food in your belly within one more minute, I’m going to turn you across my knee, give you that spanking you’ve earned, then force feed you myself.”