Marrying the Irish King

Three minutes into my sister's wedding, the groom stops the priest, looks past the bride entirely, and says my name instead.

By sundown, I'm his wife.

Ruairí Brennan rules Dublin's docks, half its underworld, and a four-hundred-year-old claim to a kingship nobody alive is supposed to remember. The press calls him the Irish King. He just upended a wedding, a contract, and my entire life with eleven words — and he isn't sorry.

I married him to clear my father's debt. I never expected to fall for...