Fighting for Irish (Fighting for Love, #3)

“No, I’m fine,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing smile.

“Like hell you are.” Kneeling in front of her, he tucked his fingers into the waist of her yoga pants. She instinctively grabbed his wrists, but she couldn’t form the words to protest when he gazed up at her with those sapphire eyes brimming with concern…for her. “Let me see, kitten. Please.”

It was the please that did it. That simple word said in his butter-melting voice undid her. If he ever figured out the sort of power he could wield with that one word, she’d be in trouble.

She released him and forced her hands to her sides as he gently pulled the waistband down just enough to expose the finger marks in front of her hip bones. His breath hissed out from a clenched jaw, then he laid his forehead on her belly. It was too quiet to tell, but she thought she could hear him counting to himself. At a loss of what to do, Kat wove her fingers into the back of his hair, cradling him to her and pretending she had the right to want him for her own.

After several minutes, he got up without saying a word and crossed the gym to rifle around in a metal cabinet. He returned with a small jar and once again knelt in front of her.

“This will help with the bruising. I’ll be as careful as I can, but it might hurt a little as I put it on.”

She nodded her assent and held still while he spread the balm where the purple marred her pale skin. When he finished, he slowly lifted her stretchy pants out and over the bruised areas before letting them shrink back to her waist.

Rising, he said, “Why don’t you go back in the house? I’ll be up in a little bit.”

“Okay. You want me to heat up those eggs Xander made you?”

He gave her a strained smile. “That’d be great. I’m starved.”

He might be talking food, but the look in his eyes revealed his thoughts were much darker. And it worried her. “Irish?”

He placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “Go on up to the house, sweetheart.” Damn him, using that accented endearment against her. “Please.”

Double damn. There was no use fighting him. Either he’d already discovered the secrets to manipulating her, or the affection and respect came naturally to him. Either way she was screwed for as long as he kept it up. Until then, she’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop, because no way in hell he’d stay like that for long. Eventually he’d lose the polite affection and start barking out orders instead of bothering to ask, much less use the word “please.”

Just like every other man she’d known. And that might just kill a part of her she didn’t think she could afford to lose.

“Hey, no frowns,” he said, tilting her head up. “No being sad or scared. Not here.”

She drew up the corners of her mouth. “I’m not.”

His exaggerated exhale clearly said, What am I going to do with you? Nessie had done the same thing with her countless times when they were young. “And I want you to stop lying. There’s no reason to lie to me. I’m never gonna judge, blame, or think less of you as long as you’re honest with me. Deal?”

“Honesty for honesty?”

He hesitated for half a second, but then answered. “Honesty for honesty. Now go on. I’ll be up soon.”

Though his tone sounded relaxed, the tightness in his jaw claimed otherwise. Kat opened her mouth to question him, but the darkness had returned to his eyes and the words got stuck in her throat. She swallowed them back and turned to leave. When she reached the door, she peered over her shoulder one last time. He stood tall with his legs braced apart, his upper body marked with tattoos and sweat, his wrapped hands fisted at his sides. A modern-day warrior if she’d ever seen one. He took her breath away, but somehow she managed one more request.

“Hurry in, okay?”

Irish offered a stiff nod, and she let herself out of the makeshift gym, sliding the door closed behind her. She quickly made her way up to the house, but then stopped on the steps when she heard muted thumping and growling filtering through the wooden slats of the barn. The noises brought up the images of Irish beating on that hanging bag again, and from the sound of things, there wouldn’t be much left of it when he was through.





Chapter Eleven


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