The last time I warned someone about their tone of voice, a few of their teeth got knocked loose by the barrel of my gun. But Nan MacKenzie runs hergub, and Brody Boy MacKenzie takes it. That must be more compromising.
Take it, Kieran.I roll my eyes away. The feeling I’ll become the spitting image of my father eats at me.
The manacles rattle as she growls, pulling away from her restraints. I retrieve the handcuff keys from my back pocket and free her. My keen gaze scrutinizes her every move.
“Good girl,” I say as she runs a hand over her wrist. “What’s your name?” My thumb runs circles over the welts, and she yanks away. I hop up, grabbing her biceps, and yank her up flush against me. “What is your name?”
The alluring stranger pauses a few beats. “So, you apply a bit of pressure, toss your weight around. That’s how you get answers?”
Well, shite. Now, I’m turned on. Narrowing my eyes to hide the glint of admiration, I dig my fingers tighter into her soft skin. “Name.”
Tears of defiance gleam in her eyes—unyielding to gravity.
“You’re mine now.”
“Damn,” she sighs, a sarcastic note woven in her tone. “Here, I assumed I’d awoken in the alternate universe where menbelongedto females.”
“Alternate? No. I know lots of lads whose women lead in our very own reality, heh.”
She stares at me a few beats, blinking a couple of times. “Ava. That’s my name. No last names.”
I nod. “Ava of Clan McFarland. It’s best you associate yourself with me at all times.”
“No.”
Mouth flickering upward, my fingers dig a little harder into her biceps. “Aye, little bird,” I mutter in Gaelic. Her arched brow kicks up. I clear my throat.
“Alright, AvaofClan McFarland.” She tilts her neck. “You win this round . . .”
“Kieran,” I tell her.
“Oh, different.”
“Irish. ‘Little dark one.’ ”
“Oh, little demon.”
“No.” I grab a tuft of my hair and let her go. “I’m notlittle.”
I turn my back on Ava. It’s symbolism, a show of the trust I harbor for my new little bird. At the entrance to the private plane, I shrug out of my jacket, holding it up for her.
I glance over my shoulder. Ava’s staring daggers at the spiderweb tattooed on my elbow, or it could be any number of the skulls marked over my left arm. Well, how will she react to seeing the rest of the artwork on my chest? Ewan wasfeckinglivid. I was met by his fists—hundreds offeckingfists—as he called me all the nuggets in the world. “Tattoos are a favorite of the good guys,” he’d said. They make it easy to identify a person, criminals. I wiped off the blood and told him I never planned on being locked in the slammer, ending our discussion.
I shake the jacket, and Ava’s disdain for the markings on my arms morphs into a cloud of confusion. Though irritated, I clip out, “Sun’s up, but you ain’t a local. You’ll freeze.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, where the fuck are we then?”
“Ireland. Northern Ireland,” I reply with a cocksure grin. Patience dwindling, I drop my hand, grab the handle, and slide the door open. Still clutching the leather jacket in my fists, I descend the stairs.
On all sides of the private runway, giant sequoias line the area I’d cleared about a half kilometer from my home.
“Walk,” I clip the command, standing at the bottom of the steps.
Ava’s gaze darts the length to the sodded earth toward the trees. The weather is good. Break-out-the-swim-trunks weather for Ireland, Scotland’s the same. But she’s freezing. Her body has grown tense. There’s a slight tremble of her mouth. I gesture toward the jacket in my outstretched hand.
Ava snarls, “What’re you planning to do to me?”
“To keep you . . .”Safe from killing yourself. Safe from my enemies.