Claimed - a Portwright Book

Chapter Seven: Declan

I was back at training on Friday and Callum sat with her again, but they didn't talk a lot. She watched Ronan and me, leant over her leg, and switching legs and which hand she leant on now and then.

I had enough trouble keeping my eyes off her with her hair in that completely natural mess of curls. It was fucking beautiful. I didn't know why she'd bother straightening it ever. I wanted to run my fingers through it for the rest of my life. But she also had this habit, as she watched, of either biting her lip or sucking on her finger. Until she seemed to notice, then she'd pull herself up straight and rearrange. It was usually then that Callum would say something and her face would light up with a smile or she'd look confused until he obviously explained something. There was quite a long portion of time when she looked between Ronan and me with a very puzzled expression and I wondered what the hell Callum had said to her.

"Ye're slow today," Ronan commented.

"I can still take you out."

He chuckled. "Aye, I bet ye could. It'd put on a good show for ye lass. Did she keep ye up all night? Or ye just getting' old?"

"Watch what ye say, mate," I warned, though a part of me wished she had.

"Decko. Ronan," a voice called and we both turned for a second.

Noah Grayson stood watching us with that devil may care attitude and a twinkle in his eye. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was darker than me. He sure as hell fought almost as well as me. There was no sign of Eli Maddox – the two were usually joined at the hip in the gym. They both played as enforcers on the West Port Highwaymen. It had surprised me that Ice Hockey was popular here, but I'd got pretty into it, especially after I considered Noah and Eli friends. When they weren't skating, they both fought under Paddy's banner.

"Noah, how's things?" Ronan asked, his eyes back on me.

"Can't complain. It's low season for me at the moment."

"Ye gettin' us those good seats next season, Wolf?" I asked, keeping Ronan firmly in my sights.

I heard Noah's familiar chuckle. "I'll fight you for them."

"Ye say that every year, and every year I win," I answered, swaying away from Ronan's fist.

"Ah well, one day, I might beat you."

"Ye might at that," I laughed. Ronan swung again and I dodged before swinging back. "Let me know if ye want to spar, aye? Not today, I've got shite to do, but ye let me know."

"Will do, Dec. Thanks man." He sauntered off.

"Ye're good to the boy," Ronan said.

I shrugged. "I like the tickets. If I didn't help him, he might not think he can take me each year."

Ronan gave a rough chuckle. "Ye're a piece of work, Cú."

My gaze inadvertently flew to Sophie and I felt a sense of unease.

"Oh, does she not return yer affections, mate?" Ronan teased and I gave him a hit he couldn't dodge and our training amped up, something more suitable for our years of practice.

I'd got to where I was because of years of hard work. At sixteen, my ma had sent me to Paddy Martin on her death. At the time, I supposed it made sense. Back home, he'd been like an uncle to me. Story was my ma was knocked up by a Martin Boy – not that I ever knew who – if you didn't believe the stories about the Sidhe, and Paddy had looked after her like his own sister. But I hadn't seen him from the time he left when I was eight until I saw him again almost nine years later.

I hadn't expected a warm welcome, but I got as warm a welcome as a boy who was yet to prove himself. And prove myself I did. I was thrown in the ring my first day in the country and beaten every kid under the age of eighteen they put me against. So Paddy had me train harder. By the time I was twenty, I was beating any man under twenty-five. I was like a dog with a bone: I fought harder and dirtier, doing everything and anything I could to win.