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“The kind where I was unconscious and in little more than a shirt and panties. Those kinds of liberties.”
He turned away and looked out the window, but I noticed the hand on his thigh flexing into a tight fist. My eyes went back to his face when he said, “No. No liberties. You aren’t mine.”
I bristled. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
He turned back—his blue eyes resigned. “That’s where you’re wrong, lass.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Why aren’t you hysterical right now?”
“What good would hysterics do me?” I replied, arching a brow. The look would’ve been much more dramatic if I didn’t have my face in the top of a vomit bag, but my stomach was still roiling, and bile was a bitter bite in the back of my throat.
“You were kidnapped.”
“I’m aware.”
“And taken to another country.”
I peered out the window, staring at the lush green fields and low stone walls that zoomed past the glass. The sky was gray, the clouds heavy and full with more rain to come. I sure wasn’t in Detroit anymore. The problem was, I hadn’t even been out of the state before, so I had no idea what other areas of the country looked like. Somehow, I didn’t think they looked like this.
“Where are we?” I didn’t turn to face him, not wanting him to see the flicker of unease that was building inside my chest.
“Ireland. About forty minutes north of Galway, to be precise.”
I swallowed over the hard lump in my throat and turned to face the man who had abducted me. “Who are you?”
“Grayson Kent.”
Blinking rapidly, I willed my brain to focus on the memory. I remembered waking up in an airplane and a man—Grayson—telling me not to scream, but my father had taken me through enough abduction drills to know if someone tells you not to scream, that you should do just the opposite. If your kidnapper wanted you quiet, it meant they were in a public place where drawing attention to them would be bad.
I had screamed, and although he’d given me the chance to be a good and obedient little abductee, I hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction. He’d shoved his hand over my mouth and stuck me with a needle.
He had told me then that his name was Grayson, right before I’d drifted into the drug haze.
“Who’s your boss?” My question came out quietly—so quietly I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.
I tried again. “Grayson, who—”
“Finnan Quinn.” He turned to face me—his expression unreadable. “The man who’s going to be your husband in two weeks.”
Finnan Quinn.
Finnan Quinn.
Finnan Quinn.
I repeated the name to myself, shuffling through my mental inventory—the same inventory my father had made me memorize. Allies. Enemies. Major players. All of them. Finnan Quinn was the boss of the Mac Tíre Clan—one of Ireland’s more ruthless mafia groups.
My grandfather had previously had dealings with them, but not my father.
I licked my suddenly dry lips and Grayson’s blue eyes darkened as he watched the movement. “Finnan Quinn is to be my husband?”
“Aye.”
“In two weeks?”
Grayson’s expression went blank. “Aye.”
“Why?”
“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with him, lass.”
