Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Dangerous Doms)

by Jane Henry

  “You’ve suffered amnesia. Just means you’ve forgotten a few things. But Sebastian says they’ll come back.”

  I let the words settle as I process them. “How? How will they come back?”

  He reaches for my hand, and this time I let him take it. “I’ll help you remember. I have to talk to Sebastian, the doctor. The man who just left. We weren’t entirely sure how you’d respond when you eventually woke, so we aren’t totally prepared.”

  I nod. “So with… time and… whatever it is that Sebastian tells you to do… will my memory come back?”

  “Aye,” he says with confidence. “Absolutely. I’m sure of it. This is only temporary. And you’re a strong lass. You’ll weather this, I know it.”

  “Am I?” I ask. “A strong lass?” I don’t feel very strong right now. I’m lying in bed, grasping fruitlessly at memories.

  He runs his thumb along the top of my hand. “Aye. One of the bravest.” His hand feels warm and rough holding mine, and my need to be held, to be comforted, grows.

  I look about the room. I’m in a massive bed, so large I’m dwarfed by it, like a child playing house. There’s a bathroom to my left and to the right, a doorway that leads to another room. I see the door to a closet, and a few pieces of well-made, sturdy furniture. It’s neat and clean in here.

  “I’m not in a hospital.”

  “No, this is our bedroom. We’re in our wing in the family mansion that overlooks the Irish Sea in Ballyhock. Home of the McCarthy Clan, of which you’re a member.”

  Okay. Alright. I can understand that much at least. I’m grateful for his clear explanation of facts.

  “How long have we been married?”

  “Only a few days.”

  I blink. Days?

  “Days,” I repeat. “How did we meet? Have we known each other long?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Our marriage was arranged by our Clans.”

  Clans. I know that word. I can’t define it, but I know it means something like family.

  “So I’ve only known you for a short time, then?”

  “Aye.”

  For some reason, that brings me relief. A moment later, I realize why.

  “So we are strangers, then. Still getting to know each other?” I can pick up where I left off, I guess.

  He smiles. Oh, wow, his green eyes are gorgeous, and there’s a dimple in his cheek. It’s hot. He’s hot. And he’s my husband. My heart flutters a little.

  “Aye.”

  “Do I have a family?” I whisper. “Are there people… somewhere else… that love me?” I can remember a sister, but that’s it.

  His eyes darken, and his nostrils flare. I’ve made him angry. What did I say?

  “Your family is here, now, Aileen.”

  “Are you just saying that because you want me here, or do I really have no family?”

  A muscle ticks in his jaw before he responds. “You have a father who gave you to me and a mother who enabled him. They are not good people, and I don’t wish you to have contact with them again.”

  My nose tingles, and my throat tightens. I’m overcome with emotion about all of this. This is terrible. That’s harsh. I don’t know enough about this to even contradict him, so I leave it for now.

  Your family is here, now.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Cormac, another question, please.”

  He nods.

  He’s my husband. I need this. I’m going to ask him.

  “Will you… will you sit with me for a little while?”

  It might be my imagination, but for one tiny sliver of time, I imagine his own eyes water. The next second, he blinks and he’s sober again, so stern and formidable I wonder what made me think that, and furthermore, what made me think being held by him would be nice.

  He doesn’t speak, but stands, kicks off his shoes, and climbs into the bed beside me. I’m surrounded by piles of pillows and blankets. He moves them aside and comes closer to me, folding the blankets down and sliding beneath them. He leans back in the bed against the pile of pillows and lifts his arm.

  “Come here, lass,” he says in a soft, gentle voice that makes my eyes prick with tears. Why am I so emotional? Is it foreign to me to be treated with kindness?

  “I don’t like being like this,” I tell him.

  “Like what?”

  “All… emotional. It feels weak.”

  “When people are under trauma, they sometimes need a little help is all,” he says. “Doesn’t make you weak.”

  “Something tells me if you got conked in the head and knocked out and woke up not remembering who you were or how you got there, you wouldn’t go all teary-eyed. You’d probably come up with your fists raised.”

  He chuckles. “Aye.”

  I slide under his arm and lay my head on his chest. My eyes flutter closed, and I breathe in deeply, before I let my breath out again. I like his strong, masculine scent. The coolness of his t-shirt against my cheek. The firm expanse of his chest. The way his arms encircle me and he holds me tight.

  I listen to the steady beat of his heart in the stillness. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The lump in my throat dissolves, and I feel warm, wet tears leak onto his shirt.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I say. I hate that I am. “I don’t want to. I want to be the strong lass you say I am.”

  “Hush, sweetheart,” he says. “Crying doesn’t weaken you. Sebastian said this might happen.”

  “Did he?”

  “Aye. Says amnesia and trauma sometimes trigger emotions. But don’t fear that, Aileen. Just let it out, lass. I don’t think any less of you for havin’ emotions. Cry it out, if you must. Might even make things a bit better.”

  Is he just pretending to be sweet? Am I supposed to like him? Because I do, and I’m not sure if I should.

  I don’t try to check the tears, but let them flow freely. I want to know who I am. Who he is. Where we go from here. I hate that I have a family that doesn’t like me, but I’m grateful I have a home here. And I’ll remember who I am. I will.

  After a few minutes, there comes a sort of peace. He doesn’t speak, but just holds me in the silence. I push myself up, one hand on his chest to look into his eyes. He reaches out and brushes a tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb, then laces his fingers through my hair to the back of my head.

  “I’ll help you remember. But we need to get you out of this bed, washed up, and fed.”

  “We do,” I whisper, ridiculously enamored by how hot he is. Did I know this before I lost my memory? Or did who he is color my perception? I don’t trust myself or my feelings.

  Still holding my gaze, he reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and sends out a text before putting it back down. He holds me the entire time.

  And then he’s kissing me through salty tears, his mouth meeting mine with purpose, gently at first, then firmer, a gentle stroke of his tongue against mine.

  It triggers something in me, some sort of memory, and a flare of arousal licks at my core.

  He’s good at this. He knows how to pleasure me.

  With one hand still at the back of my head, he holds me with the other, kissing me until I shiver with need. Soft, sensual lips, a stroke of his tongue on mine, a sharp, sensual flare of pain when he bites my lip then kisses me again.

  He releases me and holds the back of my head. “Do you remember anything, lass?”

  I do. I do.

  I nod. “I know that we’ve… that we’ve made love before, haven’t we?”

  His body stills. “We’ve had sex,” he says with brutal honestly. “Haven’t quite made love yet, but I have made you come a few times, and I’m damn proud of that.”

  I laugh. “Well, then. Seems you take your husbandly duties seriously.”

  He gives me a playful slap to the arse. “Aye.”

  A flare of arousal licks at me at that. “Um. What was that?”

  “What?”

  “You just spanked me.”

&n
bsp; “Aye, I swatted your arse. Wasn’t quite a spanking.”

  I furrow my brow at him and pull away. “Do you spank me?”

  And better yet, does it turn me on like it just did?

  He snorts. “I have. And will still if the situation calls for it.”

  My heart beats a little faster. “Oh? How so?”

  There’s a twinkle in his eyes, though he speaks with firm conviction. “I’m your husband, and head of this house. I expect you to obey, and if you don’t, I’ll punish you.” He frowns a bit. “Seems it’s something else I need to remind you of, hmm?”

  I huff and push away from him. “Not so sure about that.”

  Reaching over, he pulls me back over to him, and to my shock, he reaches for me, and lazily arranges me over his lap.

  “Not so sure about that, is it?”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, squirming over his lap, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

  “Sebastian said to help you remember.” He pats my arse over the cotton pajamas. “I’m following doctor’s orders.”

  “Cormac!”

  “Aileen?”

  “This seems wildly inappropriate.”

  “If this seems wildly inappropriate, I can’t wait to show you what else I have in store for you.”

  He rubs his large palm over my arse, up and down the swell of it. To my shock, the very feel of his skin on mine sends frissons of awareness through my body. I moan a little, and he continues, massaging my naked skin.

  “You may not remember, but I do.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “What you told me.”

  Oh, God. “What did I tell you?”

  “What you fantasized about.”

  “Now, Cormac. That was another woman. That wasn’t me. I’m an entirely different—ow!”

  His palm slaps my arse. It isn’t very painful, but it’s hardly a love tap.

  “Nonsense,” he says. “It’s my job to help you remember, and I take my job very seriously. Spread your legs, lass.”

  When I do, I remember, just a little, the vaguest of memories, how he masters my body and commands me to climax. Now this I could get used to.

  I open my mouth to protest but forget what I’m protesting when he strokes a finger toward my clit. Even over clothing, it feels so good my breath hitches. I groan as he works me harder and faster, until a knock at the door outside this room interrupts us. I whimper at the loss of his touch.

  “Motherfucker,” he mutters. “We’ll come back to that.”

  I scramble off his lap and pull the blankets up over me. Did anyone hear him? I will die if anyone heard him. But the entryway door is quite a distance from here. I can’t even hear what they’re saying though the door’s open.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” he says. My stomach growls as if on cue.

  “Starving.”

  He places the tray on a little table against the wall. I throw the blankets off and try to stand, but my legs are weak. It’s shocking to me how many things I can’t do right away.

  He’s by my side, holding my elbow. “Easy, now. Take it slow. One step at a time.”

  “I think I’ve just been in bed too long,” I say with chagrin.

  “Aye, lass, but you’re in good shape. You’ll bounce right back, watch and see.”

  “If you say so.”

  He chuckles. “I do say so.”

  “And something tells me what you says goes, hmm?”

  “Aye. See how quickly you’re remembering everything? Well done, you.”

  He pulls a chair out and gestures for me to sit. My stomach rumbles with hunger when I smell the fragrant scent of freshly-baked bread.

  “What time of day is it, anyway?”

  “Evening,” he says. “On the third day after your attack.”

  He lifts the lid on a large tray. My mouth waters. Two small bowls of stew sit beside thick, crusty bread and a crock of golden butter. The main course looks like creamy fish pie topped with mashed potatoes, roasted carrots on the side, and two generous helpings of apple cake topped with icing. Yum.

  “Okay, wow, this looks good.”

  “Remember,” he says with a teasing smile. “You’re a voracious eater.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that,” I say, tucking in. I could eat this entire tray and leave none for him.

  We eat in silence until I lean back with a satisfied smile.

  “Delicious.”

  “Finish your veggies,” he says, pointing his fork at the carrots I left on my plate.

  I frown at him. “What if I don’t want them?”

  He chews then swallows. “Didn’t ask you if you wanted them. I gave you a reasonable portion. Sebastian says your medication without food will make you nauseous, and good, healthy food will help you heal more quickly.”

  The highhanded instruction makes me angry. “Fuck Sebastian.”

  “Aileen.” There’s warning in his voice.

  “No, fuck him,” I say, pushing the plate away from me. “I may not remember everything, but I do know I wasn’t a pushover.”

  He crosses his arms on his chest and gives me a look that makes me quake despite my bravado. “Perhaps I need to remind you, neither am I.”

  Chapter 11

  Cormac

  My phone rings. I watch Aileen eating her food with a petulant look that would give a grade school brat a run for her money. She’s lucky I’m giving her a little space. She’s been through quite a fucking ordeal and I don’t want to be too overbearing, but at the same time, the quicker we establish our roles, the easier it’ll go.

  I answer the phone and nod in approval. She rolls her eyes. My palm twitches.

  It’s Keenan. “How’s Aileen?”

  I grunt. “She’s good, I suppose. Bit of a brat at the moment.”

  “Hey!” she protests.

  Keenan chuckles. “Aye, but you know how to handle a brat.”

  I look pointedly at her and say loud and clear, “I absolutely know how to handle a brat.” She pouts, and she’s fucking adorable.

  “Sebastian says it’s good if she’s out of bed and getting some exercise. You didn’t marry a wallflower, so her returning to the natural state of things might be a good thing.”

  “True.” I don’t tell him how I’m torn, though. I want to remind her who she is, but we’re still learning, still getting to know each other.

  When I woke in the hospital wing and saw her beside me, hooked up to IV’s and beeping machines, her face pale and wan, it destroyed me. I wasn’t as badly injured as she was. I failed to protect her.

  Sebastian was confident she’d wake up, but wasn’t sure of the extent of the damage to her brain. And now… Christ, now, I’m not so sure how to proceed.

  Some women need a firm hand, and Aileen is one of them.

  Keenan continues. “We aren’t sure who instigated the attack,” he says slowly, as if anticipating my response.

  “How can we not fucking know? Had to be the Martins.” I’m so angry I want to hurl this phone across the room. Aileen watches me with interest, and it might be my imagination, but I think a shimmer of remembrance passes over her when I say the Martins.

  “No, it doesn’t have to be the Martins,” Keenan says. “We called Mack Martin, and he was shocked to hear of the attack. Said her family wanted to know how she was doing.”

  “Right,” I say with a derisive snort.

  “Cormac,” Keenan says. “The Martins gave us the girl to keep order. Do you think they’d willingly jeopardize the peace we just established by attacking us not two days later?”

  “And not hours after I whipped her brother’s arse?”

  Keenan is silent for a moment. “You told me you didn’t think he’d retaliate.”

  “I didn’t. But Christ, Keenan. Who else would?”

  He sighs. “Lots of others. You know this. Listen, it’s been a long few days, and you—”

  “Don’t fucking placate me.” Fuck his condescension.

  His v
oice is tight and angry. “I might be your brother but I’m still your fucking Chief, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

  Christ, but he’s right. I sigh. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Keenan.”

  “Now listen,” he continues. “We’ve a list of who it could be.”

  Aileen gets up from her chair and stretches. The little cotton top she wears rises, revealing the sweet curve of her lower back. The image of bending her over while I lick that secret spot and finger her pussy distracts me. I don’t hear a goddamn word he says.

  “…and we can’t forget the O’Gregors.”

  The O’Gregors are rivals to the Martins. We’re all separate Clans but irrevocably tied to one another in various ways.

  “Anyone inspect the latest trade?” The arms trade is our largest, most profitable business we run.

  “Aye. And all looks good there. But Father Finn says there’s an increase in the drug trade, and we suspect the O’Gregors are behind it.”

  “We have nothing to do with that.”

  “Don’t we? We’ve got half a dozen cops on our payroll. My sources tell me they’ve got none.”

  I grunt. Alright, then. The O’Gregors are on the list.

  I start when I hear the shower turning on. Is she trying to shower herself? She’ll still be wobbly from the head injury.

  “I have to go, Keenan, Aileen needs me.”

  “Aye. Come see me tonight, and I’ll run by the rest of the suspects.”

  I hang up the phone and head to the bathroom.

  Who’s behind this? I want to know. I need to know who’s responsible for the devastation they brought to my wife. For nearly killing her. I’ll find out who’s responsible, and they’ll fucking pay.

  But first, I’ll see to my wife.

  I hear her singing when I approach the shower and pause. I forgot the lass could sing. It’s a stark reminder of how little I do know about her, how far we have to go still.

  I don’t want her showering alone. Sebastian said she could be dizzy from her head injury. I don’t want her tripping or falling. I go to open the door, to go help her, when I find it locked.

  Mother of God, the lass is pushing my buttons.

  I pound on the door. “Open this door!”

  She continues to sing, belting out an old Irish ditty warning about the wiles of mermaids.