I close my eyes. Ten captured—abused—women. How long had they been held? How much hope had they lost while imprisoned? Do they all wish they’d died, too? My eyes open, and tears make my vision blurry. I swipe the wetness away. It doesn’t do them, or myself, any good to cry. Tears are wasted on the past.

  Paddy scoots closer and touches my arm. “I’m sorry I said anything.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m glad. You got them out. It’s a good thing. Now they have a chance at something different. Something better.”

  A quiet descends. Heat radiates off him. He’s also still touching me. My gaze drops to where his hand rests against my bare skin. I’m acutely aware of the roughened texture of his fingertips. The slight abrasion as they glide along my flesh when he pulls away. I raise my head and stare at him. His blue eyes have darkened. Is that a silver ring around them?

  I’m barely conscious of the paused video game in the background or the faint crackling sounds the television speakers emit. It’s our breathing, though, that drowns everything out. The sharp inhalation we both take. There’s also a spark of electricity that seems to crackle between our far too close bodies. Aside from Pierce, this is the closest I’ve been to a man in five years.

  My heart beats wildly. A little bit from fear. A lot from attraction. Paddy slowly reaches up. The breath freezes in my chest. I stare, wide-eyed, as he draws closer. Then, he’s brushing strands of hair off my cheek. Those callouses lightly abrade my skin. I shiver but don’t turn away.

  You’re also playing with fire.

  Maybe I am.

  No, I definitely am.

  Not ready to be burned, I straighten and shift away from his touch. Not a lot, but enough to cause his hand to fall at his side. I pull my gaze from him to study a spot on the floor. He curses—almost too softly for me to catch—under his breath.

  “You should probably go back to bed. I’m sorry I woke you,” he says abruptly.

  Almost hating myself for bringing the awkward tension between us again, I nod and rise to my feet. I stare down at him for another second, and then, without a word, turn and head out of the family room and up the stairs. I close the door to my bedroom and sag against it with a blown-out breath.

  My cheek still tingles from where Paddy touched me. I reach up and press my fingertips to the same spot. What happened downstairs isn’t supposed to happen. No touching. No intimate moments. No wondering where Paddy would have touched next if I hadn’t come to my senses. If I’d actually let myself get burned. Just the thought makes my heart race.

  I cross the room and climb back into bed, then stare up at the ceiling. Occasional light dances across it from the headlights of cars turning down our block. I focus on the random brightness that comes and goes, lighting up my room for seconds before turning it dark again. Finally, I close my eyes and begin to imagine, because in the quiet of each night, where I’m afraid to admit things, even to myself, I’m lonely.

  What would it feel like if Paddy touched me? I try to picture those rough fingers gliding down my bare arm. My palms start to sweat. I clutch my fists at my sides and continue with the images in my head. Paddy touching my face like he did downstairs. My skin tingles. It’s…nice.

  His fingers glide along my jaw and down my neck. My breath catches. The rough texture skims over my collar bones. Then a little lower. Blood pounds in my veins. A scream catches in my throat. My eyes fly open, and I gasp for breath.

  No. No touching.

  Whatever happened downstairs, I can’t let happen again.

  Chapter 27

  Paddy

  * * *

  Feck. What the hell am I thinking, touching Anya like that? My gaze follows her until she disappears from the living room. Her faint footsteps go up the stairs and down the hallway toward her bedroom. The ceiling above me creaks from them. Then, it’s silent.

  I turn back to the television and pick up the gaming controller. My thumb hovers over the play button. With a sigh, I shut the console off and toss it back in the storage basket. My focus is no longer on the game.

  I climb to my feet and make my way up the stairs as well, turning the light off behind me. My legs are heavy, treading up the steps. Hell, my whole body is. I’d told Anya the truth. Tonight had been rough. Not only from the death and destruction. But from the despair and defeat I witnessed in those women.

  Sleep is the farthest thing from my mind. Instead, it’s my wife I can’t get out of my head. Five years ago, I hadn’t really given much thought to what she’d gone through. Of course, the generalities of what went down the night of her rescue had been shared.

  Emilio and Pierce made a deal with the Polish leader, Wójcik: the return of Anya in exchange for continued neutrality against their…unsavory business practice of trafficking. Because of that deal, it’s my family who went to war with the Polish in the Italian’s stead. A war we’ve been fighting ever since.

  I’ve been on countless raids and rescued countless women. Until tonight, though, I haven’t been affected by it. Is it because of the woman down the hall from me? I picture that scar on her inner arm. The way she hid it from me. Her expression pleading with me not to ask. She must have been in so much pain.

  Jack’s words describing Anya come back to me. About her sense of humor. About her needing a friend. Except the more I learn about her, the more time I spend with her, it’s not friendship I’m feeling. Lust, certainly. She’s gorgeous. The kind of woman I would have seduced a long time ago.

  But there’s more to Anya than just her looks. She’s fragile almost. But underneath that fragility seems to be a tensile strength. It doesn’t matter how intriguing I find her, though. She’s not for me. No woman is. At least, not for longer than a night.

  And I wouldn’t do that to Anya. Even if she wanted to. She’s the type of woman a man builds a family with. Has children with. A better man. Better than me, anyway.

  Dawn comes far too early. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee wafts around my room. I throw on a pair of jeans and head downstairs. Anya putters around the kitchen, moving from the fridge to the stove. My gaze drifts to the full pot of java on the counter.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  She jumps and whirls with her hand on her chest. “Shit, you scared me.”

  I show her my palms. “Sorry. What are you doing?”

  Anya sends me a look. “I’m making us breakfast. What does it look like? There’s fresh coffee over there.”

  Then she goes back to her task. I can’t move. When’s the last time someone made me breakfast besides Mother? And that’s been years. It’s so…domestic. That twitch behind my eye starts up. Ignoring it, I cross the room and pour myself a cup of coffee.

  “You’re up early,” I note.

  Anya glances over her shoulder. “I told you I was a morning person. Especially during the summer when it gets too hot to work outside in the garden during the afternoon. So, I do all my gardening first thing. Then I can spend the rest of the day sewing or doing whatever else I can find. I’m not a big fan of being idle. When I was living at the community center, we all had chores. Mine was in the kitchen. Cooking.”

  I lean against the counter and sip my drink. “Don’t feel like you have to cook for me. I’m used to fending for myself.”

  “It’s actually something I enjoy. I think it feeds my creative side. Maybe because I can experiment and try new things.” Anya pauses and glances at me. Her mouth parts like she wants to add something. There’s only a short hesitation. “We didn’t have a lot of options when I was growing up.”

  She’s got my attention. “You and Mila, you mean?” I ask hesitantly, unsure how she’ll react to my question.

  Anya nods and mirrors my position. “Yeah. My mother wasn’t around much, so it was just my sister and me most of the time. She’s really the one who raised me.”

  “It’s nice you two are so close,” I say.

  “We weren’t always,” she says quietly, almost absently, as though it’s a confession she’s not proud of. She blinks, and her gaze meets mine. “I was angry a lot as a teenager. Especially toward the end. Before Maksim. Before…the Polish.”

  I study Anya. There’s an air of uncertainty around her. This conversation feels important. Like she’s sharing secrets she wouldn’t normally share. It makes me…not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Deep. Far deeper than any conversation I’ve ever had with a woman. How do I respond?

  The women I gravitate toward are not women I’m pursuing for their skills with small talk. I hate that I don’t know how to talk to Anya. It makes me feel stupid. I had enough of being made to feel that way growing up.

  I quickly straighten, down the rest of my coffee in a single swallow, and dump the mug in the sink. “Thanks for breakfast, but I have somewhere I need to be.”

  Her hurt expression flashes briefly as I hustle out of the kitchen and back up to my room. I throw a shirt on and shove my feet into a pair of boat shoes before I nearly run down the stairs and out the front door.

  With no actual direction, I drive. Anywhere away from the house. From Anya. And from the unsettled sensation I got from her too personal confession. Before long, I find myself at Donnelly’s. It’s far too early for the pub to be open, but usually Jack is here getting things ready for the day.

  I unlock the front door with a key all of us kids have a copy of and stride through. The lights are dim, casting only a faint glow over the empty front dining area. I glance around. The last time I was here was the night of the disastrous bachelor party. The air carries only the faintest scent of beer. Instead, there’s an odor of cleaning supplies. I make my way to the bar.

  “What are you doing here so early? Did Anya kick you out of the house already?” Jack says as he approaches from the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder and carrying a crate of glasses.

  His words hit a little too close to home. “I figured you could use some help here. I’m still feeling on edge after last night’s raid.”

  Jack sets his load on the counter and observes me with a far too critical stare. I keep my expression as impassive as possible. My marriage isn’t up for discussion. Not while I’m still dealing with these conflicting thoughts about Anya. He grabs the towel and tosses it to me.

  “Why don’t you dry the stacked glasses I just washed while I put these away,” he instructs.

  I circle behind and get to work. The only sound is clanging glass. I’ve never had this much trouble talking to Jack. “How’s Rory?” I ask for nothing better to say.

  “She’s good. At her guitar lesson this morning.”

  Apparently, Rory had been named after her mom’s favorite blues singer, and when she was younger, she tried learning how to play the instrument. Of course, my brother would buy her one as a gift and then find someone to teach her. I’ll never admit to being envious of the relationship they have.

  “That’s nice,” I say absently. Seconds pass. My skin prickles. I glance up to find Jack staring at me.

  “You’ve been drying the same glass for the last five minutes. What’s going on with you?”

  “What?” I laugh self-consciously. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Paddy. I’ve known you for twenty-nine years. You only come in here to work under extreme duress. And when you do, there always has to be something in it for you.” Jack leans back and crosses his arms. His stare is pointed. “You’re distracted. Christ, you’re even making awkward small talk. That’s not like you.”

  I sigh and set down the towel. “Anya wants to be friends. She even made breakfast and coffee this morning.”

  My brother stares, saying nothing, as though he’s expecting more. I shift under the scrutiny.

  “Is that it?” Jack finally asks. “What’s wrong with being friends? I’m friends with Rory. Besides, she’s your wife. “

  “I’ve never been friends with a woman before,” I exclaim. “There’s no breakfast the morning after. They don’t make me coffee. Or share things about their personal life. I fuck them and then I leave. It’s simple and uncomplicated.”

  “Maybe you’re making breakfast and coffee more complicated than it has to be.”

  Jack doesn’t get it. “It’s more than just those two things.” It’s the intimacy of it. Especially after last night.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” I shake my head. “Sorry, I gotta go.”

  As though some unnamed emotion is choking me, I head for the door. I need some air.

  “Paddy,” Jack calls, but I ignore him.

  I’m out the door and crossing the street to my car. Then, I’m on the way to the brownstone I shared with Jack and Nathan. I need to clean my weapons. Anything to clear my head.

  Chapter 28

  Anya

  * * *

  Paddy’s avoiding me. It’s not blatantly obvious. He still says good morning when he enters the kitchen, though he never stays long. Instead, he hurries out of the house to who knows where. I’ve started eating cereal because I don’t want to make breakfast for just myself.

  He even manages to say hello if we pass each other in the hallway outside our bedrooms. Yesterday, he said good night when I headed upstairs to bed. Other than that, he avoids me.

  My gaze drifts out to my garden. The sun is behind the trees and slowly falling toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the entire backyard. I’ve been sitting in my sewing room window seat for two hours, working on this new project I started right before the wedding. It’s a birthday present for Caitlín. She’ll be twenty-one in a couple of weeks, and I wanted to make her something special.

  But no matter how long I sit here and try to focus, my thoughts drift. Always back to Paddy. Back to the passing greetings we’ve exchanged in the week since he rushed out of the house after I mentioned the Polish. It was stupid and probably made him uncomfortable. That reminder of what happened to me.

  He’s gone frequently. Just like he said he would be. I miss him. More than I care to admit. Even though we’ve only had a couple brief conversations, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. I find myself wanting to share things with him.

  What’s he doing when he’s not here? How he’s spending his time? What are his hobbies? Before my marriage, I wouldn’t have considered myself a curious person. It’s dangerous, this curiosity I have. It’s not going to end well.

  I glance down at the dress and groan. The stitches are all uneven, and the beading, that’s supposed to be in the shape of a flower, is all crooked and lopsided. Frustration bubbles up. I’m spending far too much time thinking about my husband. Especially when he’s making it obvious that, despite what he said a week ago, he doesn’t want to be friends.

  There’s a knock on the door. I whirl in my seat. Paddy stands in the open doorway. The light cascading in through the window lands on him. The russet-colored strands of his messy hair shine bright. It highlights his broad chest and shoulders, muscled arms, and narrow waist. My pulse kicks up.

  “I’m not bothering you, am I?” he asks.

  “No. Not at all.” I shake my head. “You can come in if you’d like. There’s a chair if you want to sit.”

  There’s only a brief hesitation before he crosses the distance of the room. He doesn’t sit but turns in place, his gaze taking in my personal space. My curiosity is piqued as to why he’s here, considering he’s been avoiding me for so long.

  “So, those are the mannequins you were telling me about.” He points out the two standing torsos. “I like the dress on that one.”

  My cheeks heat because it’s one I’m making for myself. It’s a lot fancier than most of the dresses in my closet, aside from my wedding dress, but I felt indulgent. Considering all the different functions the Italians hold between weddings, christenings, and various fundraisers Francesca often invites me to, I’m sure there will be some place to wear it. Maybe the birthday party Caitlín has planned for herself.

  “Thank you.”

  Paddy’s gaze lands on the papers scattered across the surface of my table. He moves closer, reaches for one, pauses, and casts a glance in my direction. “May I?”

  My belly flutters with nerves. “Sure.”

  He picks up one of my drawings. I’m sweating. Caitlín and Mila are the only people I’ve ever shown my designs to. They’re personal. Private. I’m always worried they’re never good enough, no matter how often they tell me otherwise.

  Paddy raises his head. “Did you come up with this and draw it yourself?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. “It’s just something I like to do.”

  “These are incredible,” he says.

  “They’re doodles, mostly.”

  “Anya, these are more than doodles. This is talent right here.” His voice is firm. “Absolutely amazing.”

  My heart races at the compliment. I’m not sure why it means more coming from him. Maybe because Mila is my sister, and Caitlín is my best friend, and I feel like they have to say something nice. Paddy, on the other hand, doesn’t.

  “That means a lot. Really.”

  He sets the drawing down and then finally takes a seat. He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to Donnelly’s for dinner?”

  I blink. Is Paddy asking me out? On a date?

  “I know the last time you were there, things got…weird,” he says almost haltingly when the silence drags. “But I thought since you’ve been in here for a little while, you might want something to eat.”

  Finally, I find my voice. “I am getting a little hungry.”

  Paddy rises. “I’ll be downstairs whenever you’re ready. No rush.”

  He leaves as quickly as he came while I sit in stunned silence at the invitation. My motionless state only lasts for another second, and then I jump off the window seat. I quickly but carefully fold up Caitlín’s dress and set it on my table. The trek to my room is rushed, and I nearly trip going down the stairs.