She’s entitled to her rage, and honestly the blows don’t hurt.
She’s not a large woman and doesn’t have the leverage or training to do real damage, though I’ll give her credit for trying.
Her fists connect with my chest, my shoulders, and once with my jaw hard enough that I actually feel it.
I keep one arm locked around her waist to prevent her from doing something stupid like trying to throw herself out of a moving vehicle, which based on the way she’s eyeing the door handle is absolutely something she’s considering.
Connor Brennan’s face when he realized what was happening, when he understood I was taking his daughter and there was nothing he could do to stop it, that moment alone was worth five years of planning.
The look of absolute horror and helplessness.
I’ll dream about that look for the rest of my life.
That’s what you get when you kill a man’s brother and think you can just pay blood money and walk away.
Emma’s still screaming, her voice raw and furious and the sound is starting to irritate me.
“You’re a dead man! Do you hear me? Dead! My father is going to hunt you down and feed you to the fucking fishes! He’s going to cut off your balls and shove them so far down your throat you’ll be shitting them out for a week!” She pauses for breath, her chest heaving. “I hope you get dick cancer! I hope your dick falls off and rats eat it! I hope?—”
“Wait, did you just call me a cock-juggling thundercunt?” I interrupt as her words finally register and I’m genuinely impressed. “That’s new.”
Her green eyes narrow into slits of pure fury and I can see I’ve made a tactical error by showing amusement.
“Oh, you like that, you festering twat waffle?” She nearly snarls, her cheeks bright red. “How about this—I hope you step on Legos every day for the rest of your miserable fucking life. I hopeyou get a papercut on your urethra. I hope someone replaces all your coffee with decaf and you never figure out why you’re always tired, you absolute fuck-knuckle!”
Despite the adrenaline still pumping through my system and the very real possibility that Connor might try to start a war over this—I feel my lips twitch.
“You think this isfunny?” Her voice climbs even higher. “You think kidnapping me is fucking funny, you rancid cum dumpster?”
“Not funny,” I say, keeping my voice calmer than I feel, which I know will infuriate her more. “But I have to admit, your creativity is impressive. A papercut on the urethra is particularly inspired. Did you come up with these yourself or is there some sort of rich girl finishing school where they teach creative cursing?”
Wrong thing to say.
Emma’s hand comes up and her nails rake across my other cheek, and this time she puts real force behind it.
I feel the skin split and the hot sting of blood glide down my face.
Fuck, that hurt.
“You smug fucking bastard!” She’s breathing hard, her chest heaving against the tight bodice of that wedding dress, and there’s something absolutely magnetic about the fury radiating off her. “I hope it gets infected and your face rots off!”
I catch her wrist before she can go for a third strike, my fingers circling the delicate bones.
Her skin is soft, and I can feel her pulse hammering against my thumb.
Her heart’s racing, running at probably twice its normal rate, and I know she’s terrified even though she’s hiding it behind rage.
Good strategy, actually.
Anger is better than fear.
Anger keeps you sharp.
Fear just makes you stupid.
I’ve spent forty-three minutes in St. Patrick’s Cathedral watching the preparations unfold, sitting in that back pew.
I watched Connor work the crowd, shaking hands like he’s father of the year instead of a murderer.