Bound (Men of Club Triskelion Book 2), page 1
BOUND
MEN OF CLUB TRISKELION
J.L. QUICK
BOUND COPYRIGHT
© 2024 by J.L. Quick Books LLC
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Morally Gray Publishing
Editing: Spice Me Up Editing (Katie)
CONTENTS
author’s note
trigger warnings
glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
also by j.l. quick
Follow Me
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel is a contemporary dark romance. It contains scenes and descriptive adult content, recommended for adult (18+) readers.
As a contemporary, dark romance work of fiction, this novel is not intended to be a portrayal of a healthy relationship or a ‘how to guide’ for the kink and lifestyle elements depicted within.
For those interested in exploring aspects of kink and/or dominant-submissive relationships explored in the following chapters, please do so responsibly and with appropriate reference materials.
TRIGGER WARNINGS
This novel may contain scenes and descriptive adult content that might be triggering for some readers.
GLOSSARY
This novel contains dialect commonly found in Ireland and Great Britain.
A stóirín—My little treasure
Arse—Ass
Bloke—Guy/dude
Bloody—Damned/Fucking/Very
Daidi—Daddy
Feek—Someone attractive
Go hifreann leat a shliomadoir lofa—To hell with you, you rotten bastard
Gnéasach—Sexy
Mam—Mom/mother
Mammy—Mommy
Mhamó—Grandmother
Mo Chéadsearc—My first love
Mo ghrá—My Love
Pakhan—Head of the Bratva
Póg mo thóin—Kiss my ass
Rud ar bith do mo dheartháir—Anything for my brother
Rud ar bith do mo theaghlach—Anything for my family
Shite—shit
Tá tú go hálainn—You are beautiful
The FDR – Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive (NYC Highway)
Twat—Obnoxious or stupid person
Uncail—Uncle
To the survivors who braved the storm and came out stronger…
CHAPTER ONE
DECLAN
“You’re a fucking twat, Finn.”
Muttering under his breath like a child, Finn grumbles, “Póg mo thóin. You’re a fucking twat.”
Maybe I should’ve let Tristan choke his arse out a few months ago.
“Just grab his bloody feet,” I snarl as my eyes dart down the dead man’s bruised body in the back of my Suburban. Finn does as he’s told—for once—and helps me drag the heavy weight down to the waterfront of the Hudson River. With all the rain the past few days, the water is high and the current should be strong enough to drag him into the Atlantic long before he surfaces. With any luck, the fish will have at him before then. Both of us give a lofty swing and toss him into the water. He hits with a splash, and I huff, “How many more strippers do you need to fuck before you finally realize they’re nothing but trouble?”
“This one wasn’t my fault.” He tips his head to the dead guy, quickly floating downstream.
Of course not.
Nothing is ever Finnegan’s fault.
“The Bratva’s accountant? Not your fault, either?”
“Nah, I own that one.” He smirks with a hearty chuckle. “It’s not my fault this girl didn’t exactly say she was seeing anyone. And she sure as fuck didn’t let me know that it was his bed I was fucking her in.”
“So, we are clear you started a fucking war?” I take a deep breath and try to maintain my composure as I wipe my soiled hands on the front of Finn’s T-shirt. “Maybe in the future, to prevent me from having to help you get rid of another body, you find out if the girl you are taking home is seeing anyone. And maybe… Just maybe, for added measure, you don’t fuck some poor bloke’s girl in his bed.”
“I think he was more upset that she was getting properly dicked than the fact it was in his bed,” he laughs. “Pretty sure he’s never heard her scream like that before.”
“Jesus fucking Christ! You’re worse than trying to rationalize with Fiona.”
The gravel crunches under our feet as we walk back to the SUV, and Finn abruptly shares, “Seriously though, the whole fucking building can tell you how many times she came.”
Tristan shouts as he closes the hatch of the Suburban, “If you two are done, can we get out of here before we get caught tossing bodies into the river? I would like to go home, climb into bed and”—he air quotes with an eye roll—“properly dick my wife.”
The three of us climb into the SUV and fight bumper-to-bumper traffic as we head back into the city. For most of the ride, I manage to bite my tongue, but when we come to a dead stop a few miles from Finn’s apartment, my curiosity gets the better of me. “I know I’m going to regret this,” I sigh. “What is the fascination with strippers?”
He leans forward, rests his forearms on the back of my and Tristan’s seats and presses himself between them before emphatically responding, “What isn’t there to be fascinated with? Perky tits, tight bodies, flexible as fuck, and stamina for days.”
I’m about to reply when he leans closer and divulges, “And more often than not, they have an ungodly amount of father figure issues they need help resolving. Meaning they’ll do just about anything for a little praise and reassurance.”
“I’m sorry I fucking asked.” I shake my head, relieved when the light finally turns green and we can pull through the intersection.
“You asked, old man.” He chuckles, sliding back.
Tristan laughs from the passenger seat, and I can’t hide the displeased scowl spreading across my face. “What?” he laughs. “You did fucking ask. Were you really expecting a philosophical discussion or eloquent words of wisdom?”
“All I’m saying is don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Finn chimes in from the backseat. “We all know you haven’t fucked anyone in a long while, and I’m sure Candy would be more than willing—”
“I am not fucking the girl you had your cock in an hour ago.” I cut him off. Pulling to the curb in front of his apartment building, I huff, “Just get out, and let’s pretend I never wanted to know.”
“Your loss.” He smirks as he climbs from the backseat. “She sucks better than a Hoover.”
For fuck’s sake.
Merging back into traffic, I can feel Tristan’s eyes on me. Turning to face him, I gruffly ask, “What?”
“He makes a valid point.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“Not about the fucking strippers,” Tristan clarifies, solemnly shaking his head. “It’s been a while—”
“It’s barely been a year, Tris,” I bark.
Disposing of a body because of Finnigan’s recklessness was not on my agenda for this evening. And I definitely didn’t sign up for a heart-to-heart regarding my non-existent sex life. I flex my fingers around the leather of the steering wheel, trying not to explode at Tristan. My knuckles whiten from my tightening grip when he continues to push the matter. “We both know damn well that isn’t true.”
“The fuck it isn’t!” I snap as we pull into the parking garage. Seeing red, I slam on the brakes, throw the Suburban into park, and violently fist the front of Tristan’s shirt. “I didn’t once break my vows when I was married to her, and I sure as fuck haven’t slept with anyone since Sarah.”
“Relax.” Tristan’s tone is s
He isn’t wrong.
My celibacy began well before Sarah’s actual passing, not long after I realized I was literally going to watch her die. Dropping my grip on Tristan and sliding out of the SUV, I share, “I’m not ready. Quite frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“None of us are pushing you to get laid. Well, except Finn,” Tristan jokes and forces me to crack a small smile. “We just don’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering what if?”
I wish it were that simple.
Memories of our life together aren’t the only thing that has kept me from moving on.
“God forbid you ever lose Layla. You’ll finally understand, then. And, more than anything, I hope that you never actually understand an ounce of what I’ve been through.”
CHAPTER TWO
QUINN
When I wanted to get together to talk with Layla tonight, I was not expecting her driver to bring me here—Declan’s home.
It looks nothing like what I expected or what I had imagined his place would be like. With the clean-cut way he dresses and his gruff demeanor, I expected his place to mimic that—leather, dark wood, and minimalist. Instead, the massive open floor plan is warm and welcoming.
Two things he is not.
My fingers dust over the back of the soft, oatmeal tweed couch. It’s an odd design choice for someone with a preschooler, clearly evidenced by the squiggly, bright green trail of marker beneath my fingertips. I round the sofa with my glass of Pinot Noir and take a seat, sinking into the softness of the cushion as I adjust the navy throw pillow beside me. Waiting for Layla to join me with her glass, my gaze roams over the room.
The soft brown walls are adorned with floral art in various muted tones to accent the soft coziness of the space; and black and white family photographs spanning as far back as pictures of the Evans brothers younger than when I first met them. Tucked in the corner not far from the couch is an adorable midnight-blue, Fiona-sized armchair and a small bookshelf packed full of childhood favorites. Other toys are scattered haphazardly around the living area, and Layla gathers a handful of them before dropping them into a small wicker basket as she makes her way to the couch and takes a seat beside me.
Even though I only met Declan’s late wife, Sarah, a handful of times before she fell ill, everything about this space reminds me of her. She was always so warm, welcoming, and down to earth.
“I know you don’t want it,” Layla continues our conversation from the kitchen, “but you know the boys will take care of you.”
Swallowing my sip of red wine, I exhale. “I know.” The Evans brothers have been footing my bills since that night at the bar, each of them letting me know countless times that there is no expiration for their offers to take care of me. All of them harbor an element of guilt for what happened to me—something that was clearly not their fault. “But you’re right. I don’t want it. I just can’t keep taking their money for nothing.”
“It’s not for nothing,” Layla corrects. “You’re family to all of them, and they are merely taking care of someone they love.”
I’m not their family…
Her words both warm and break my heart. I’ve always wanted to be a part of this family, but not like this. I don’t want to be the charity case they all feel they need to take care of.
It wasn’t always like this between us. We were all thick as thieves when we were younger, and for the longest time, the Evans brothers were like my actual brothers. The five of them would do anything to protect me. Other kids. My mother’s many boyfriends. No one stood a chance against the boys who had practically adopted me as their sister.
At least until we all went and fucked it up.
“It feels wrong, like I’m taking advantage. I would feel better about it if I were actually earning my keep.” Unfortunately, I’m basically useless being hired for any kind of job that would be worthwhile for them. Crowds, loud noises, and sometimes simply being out in public often result in a panic attack. Sweaty and hyperventilating isn’t exactly a good look on me. “I can’t go back to the bar. And while I know it’s quieter and has more security, I don’t think I’m at a place where I could handle the atmosphere of the club either.”
“I get that, Quinn. I really do. But you also know these boys aren’t exactly capable of taking ‘no’ for an answer, right?” Layla slaps her hand over her mouth. “Shit! That was insensitive as fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m not that broken.” I force a slight smile because I am still that broken. But Layla is the one person who doesn’t walk on eggshells with me, and I’m determined to keep it that way. “I’ve known them my whole life. They might be assholes at times, but not one of them would ever—”
My thoughts are cut short when the door opening to the apartment startles me, nearly causing me to spill my wine over the light cushion of the couch beneath me. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass—with enough force that I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in my fist—as my heart begins to race. Seeing my distress, Layla leans forward and lightly wraps her hand around mine, clutching the wine stem. “It’s okay.” Her tone is soft and comforting. “It’s just Tris and Declan.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and count backward—five, four, three, two, one—unsuccessfully trying to calm myself and slow my speeding heart before I spiral into a full-blown panic attack. Opening my eyes, I suddenly find myself locked with Declan’s slightly bewildered gaze from across the room. My sudden panic might be dissipating, but my heart still thumps a little harder.
“Quinn.” My name slowly rolls over Declan’s lips with his rich, deep tone as he acknowledges my unexpected presence, his deep-blue eyes not once wavering from our locked stare.
“I hope you don’t mind.” Layla’s words draw Declan’s attention from me. “She needed to talk, and I knew you guys would be awhile taking care of…um…business.”
“Subtle, mo chuisle,” Tristan chuckles as he slips his fingers under Layla’s chin and tips her face toward his before lightly kissing her lips. Standing against the back of the couch, Tristan’s hand lingers over Layla’s shoulder as he continues, “I’ve told you; Quinn knows what we do for business.”
Removing his black zip-up hoodie, Declan drapes it over the back of the barstool at the island. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans back against the island. “Quinn is like a sister to all of us. There are no secrets between any of us.”
Well, except that one…
…and then the many that stemmed from it.
CHAPTER THREE
DECLAN
“What brought you over here after midnight, anyway?” I inquire, not realizing how abrasive my question sounds until I watch Quinn become visibly more uncomfortable before my eyes. Uncrossing my arms, trying to look less standoffish, I soften. “Is everything okay?”
“No. I mean…not really,” she responds softly as she shakes her head. “I can’t—”
“Daidi?” Fiona’s sweet voice cracks through her sleepy grumble as she toddles down the hall and toward me, unintentionally interrupting Quinn. Her hot-pink floral pajamas are wrinkled. Her usually unruly, curly red hair is disheveled, and her eyes are clearly tired.
Bending down, I wrap my arms around her and lift her tiny body from the floor, swallowing her in my embrace. I place a soft kiss against her forehead. “Did we wake you up, a stóirín?” I gently ask.
“No,” she mutters as her arms wrap tightly around my neck and nuzzles into me. I should take her back to bed. Instead, I pull out the barstool and slide into it with Fiona snuggled against me on my lap to give Quinn the opportunity to finish what she wanted to say.
“You can’t what?” I prod Quinn to continue while gently petting Fiona’s untamed hair, attempting to get her back to sleep.
“I can’t keep taking your money,” Quinn blurts as Layla stands from the couch.
