Page 2

Keira had faced cartel fixers, Russian hackers, MI-6 and the U.S. government—but nothing made her stomach turn like the thought of walking back into Finn’s world.

Not because she hated him.

Because some twisted, stupid part of her still loved him.

Because the idea of seeing him again—after what she’d done—made her feel twenty-one and shattered all over again.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about him once.

CHAPTER 1

KEIRA

Boston smelled like blood and salt.

The cab driver dropped her off two blocks from her destination. Not invited—summoned. She still didn’t know who the hell her mystery client had been—only that they’d sold her debt like it was a piece of meat at the market.

Someone delivered the message with a clipped Belfast accent, conveying a feeling far colder than a simple monetary transaction.

Now, like some twisted mafia Cinderella, Keira walked into a glass tower in Boston—miles and years from the chapel in Galway she’d fled, broken, in sneakers and a silk wedding dress.

Back then, it had been candles, white roses, and the man she loved waiting at the altar. But she’d run from all of it—Finn, her dreams, her life—because she finally saw the truth: her uncle had set her up, bartering her to clean up a mess she hadn’t made. Now, she was walking into another kind of trap, older, sharper, and a hell of a lot more jaded—with nothing but her pride in one pocket and a feeling of dread tightening at the base of her spine.

She yanked her hoodie tighter around her shoulders. The wind bit beneath the threadbare cotton as if Boston knew of her past sins and held a grudge. The chill wasn’t just cold—it waspersonal, like the city had been waiting for her to crawl back to the life she’d tried to leave so it could slap her with every mistake she’d ever made.

The building was high end, all mirrored glass and sleek stone. The doorman took one look at her and nearly swallowed his tongue until she muttered the code phrase: “He knows I’m coming.” And then continued with, “Don’t make me hack your security system.”

His radio crackled. A nod later, she was on her way up. All the way up. To the penthouse, of course. Nothing like being humbled by altitude.

The elevator doors opened to silence. Clean, sterile, and cold as hell—until her boots stepped onto marble and the scent hit her.

Leather. Aged whiskey. Smoke curling like memory. Power thick enough to taste. The scent hit her like a sucker punch of memory—every heated night, every whispered vow twisted into something sharp. Her stomach clenched. Her knees damn near buckled. It was like a knife to the heart, dragging her back to nights tangled in silk sheets and whispered promises that turned into lies. It was him. It was always him. And her body remembered before her brain had a chance to protest.

Finn.

“Oh no,” she whispered to no one. “Nope. No…”

“You’re late.”

His voice had changed little—deeper, maybe. Rougher. Still laced with that dry, wicked Irish edge that used to make her toes curl and her heart thud in warning. It was the kind of voice that slipped past your defenses, curled around your spine, and whispered promises you couldn’t afford to believe. A voice that could fuck you senseless or ruin your life—and make you beg for both.

Keira pivoted, ready to bolt, but he was already behind her, spinning her around to face him.

Finn O’Neill stood like a goddamned ghost—impossibly tall, tailored black suit clinging to broad shoulders, arms crossed, expression carved from shadow.

His hair was a little longer, beard sharper, but those eyes... slate-gray. Still sharp enough to cut through every lie she wanted to wrap herself in.

“You’ve got five seconds to explain why I’m here before I do something dramatic and regret it later,” she snapped, chin lifted like she wasn’t quaking inside.

Finn didn’t move. Not even a twitch. “Try it,a stór. I dare you.”

Her breath caught. Not because of the endearment. He used to call her that. No—because of the way he said it. Low. Lethal. Like it still meant mine, like he dared her to deny it.

She took a shaky step back. “This is bullshit. I don’t owe you or the man who holds your leash. Con O’Neill’s quarrel was with my father and sister, and he killed them. I have no doubt they tried to kill him first, but none of it has anything to do with me. I don’t know what Con and my uncle believe, and I don’t care. I never signed up for some—some mafia kink ransom.”

Finn cocked an eyebrow. “This has nothing to do with your family or what they tried to do to Con. You took a contract that put you square in the cross hairs of two members of the royal family in Dubai. You didn’t vet the person from whom you took the contract. That wasn’t wise of you, but it’s not my fault.”

“You bought me?”