Daley grunts in response and turns away from the party, but someone calls her name. Three guys come over, and I recognize them instantly: Oscar Morris, Conor O’Brien, and Brody Dolan. Oscar’s about Daley’s age, and the other two are a couple of years older. They swagger toward us with the confidence of too much beer and too much privilege. They’re clan dickheads that think they run this place. Three small fries, three nothings. All of them beneath me in the hierarchy.
And yet they ignore me completely and focus on Daley.
“Hey there, Daley Halloran, I heard you were back,” Oscar says, smiling bashfully. He’s a square-headed douche with a bad haircut and a pink face.
“Looking like you never left, yeah?” Conor beams at her. His cheeks are freckle-splattered, and he’s way too bulky from working out.
“Hey, guys,” Daley says, smiling awkwardly. “I was just heading out.”
“Ah, come on,” Oscar says, “why leave now?”
“Party’s still young,” Brody adds. He’s the drunkest of the group. His eyes are bleary, and he’s practically swaying on his feet.
“Sorry, I got an early day of work tomorrow. But it’s good seeing you guys.”
“Ah come on,” Brody says, reaching out for Daley. He grabs her arm, and Oscar laughs as Brody yanks her back toward them roughly. Daley almost loses her balance and trips but ends up stumbling and catching herself as the guys laugh and move to circle around her.
I step forward before they can close ranks, rage screaming in my head like a hurricane siren, and slam my fist so hard into Brody’s nose that the blood sprays me in the face. Some dim voice says this is a bad idea. But I don’t care. I keep seeing this fucking twat touch my Daley, and I can’t think straight anymore. Brody goes down like I turned out his lights, his legs crumpling out like they’re made of paper.
“Oh, shit,” Oscar says, eyes bulging in shock.
“Fucker,” Connor growls and charges me.
I sidestep the muscled, braindead moron and let him stagger and fall on his own face. Oscar comes at me fast and hard, growling like a dog, and I bash an elbow into his guts and slam my fist into his chin, knocking him to the ground. As Conor stands, I smash my knee into his face as hard as I can and a satisfying crack echoes out as he drops back down.
I stand there breathing hard. Blood’s on my face, hands, and clothes. None of the three fuckers are moving, and at least one might be dead.
Three clan assholes lie on the ground around me in various states of bloody and unconscious.
I glare at them and at the people staring. Fights aren’t unheard of, but it’s not normal for low-level guys like these three to try to take on a single higher-ranked member, much less a guy with my reputation. I don’t know what they were thinking. That was a fucking mistake.
“Nobody touches Daley Halloran,” I say loudly enough that half the party hears.
Daley’s trembling when she steers me away, back toward the truck. “Come on,” she says quietly. “Let’s go.”
I glare back at the crowd, and I see their faces: anger, disgust, disbelief. They look at me like I’m a sick psycho, like I’m unhinged and dangerous. Like I deserve a bullet in the head. As if what happened was my fault, and not because of a few drunk idiots touching the daughter of Fergal Halloran.
I grew up with most of these people. I joined their clan. I fought alongside half of them. I became a killer, all to protect their families.
And no matter what I do, no matter how strong and loyal I become, they’ll always see me as the guy that got drunk and killed Megan.
I’ll never be a part of them.
“Rian,” Daley says, but I pull away from her.
“It’s fine,” I say through clenched teeth and get into my truck.
“You’re bleeding.” She touches my fist where the skin split.
“A little blood never hurt anyone.” I turn to look at her and reach out to grab her thigh roughly. “I meant what I said. Nobody touches you, Daley. Not while you’re mine.”
“Just don’t kill anyone.”
“No promises.”
Chapter 17
Daley
I wake up early the next morning with dreams of Rian brutally beating three guys to death still floating through my brain. What happened at the barn is mixed up with what happened to my Turkish attackers. It’s Saturday, so I lay there staring at the ceiling.
I knew what he was capable of. I’d seen it already, with those Turkish guys, but I didn’t realize the extent of it. I didn’t know they’d turned him into a machine, into a shark capable of beating down three grown men with little to no effort at all.
The Rian I remember was athletic and strong, but not ruthless, not like that.