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Conor knew that he was good at keeping control of a situation. He was practiced at not letting his emotions show on his face. That was a skill that was going to serve him well tonight. The worst possible thing would be to allow Astrid’s kidnappers to see how very afraid Conor was.

He could see The Arc now. The sign swung innocuously on its hinges. A lantern was lit inside—Conor could see the flickering glow through one of the windows—and he knew that the kidnapper, whoever he was, was ready and waiting.

Washeready?

This was going to start as soon as Conor walked through the door. There would be no going back, no pausing to regroup. He would need to be at his best.

He shook his head to clear the fog and was pleased to find that it dissipated easily. Now that he was here, adrenaline seemed to be flooding his system.

Astrid is only a short distance away now, and she needs me. I’ve got to be the best man I can be, the husband she deserves.

He wondered again if she knew he was coming for her.

She must know. She knew how much he loved her. He had made that clear, hadn’t he?

He thought so.

There was no point in waiting around outside. He was as ready as he was ever going to be. He inhaled deeply, strode toward the door, and pushed his way inside.

Astrid was sitting in the middle of the room. The tables that should have surrounded her had been pushed back to leave a clear space in the middle of the club. As Conor had worried in his darker imaginings, she was tied to a chair.

Her head slumped forward, but at the sound of the doors opening, she looked up. He saw the moment when she saw that it was him, the way her eyes lit up, the way her whole body jerked as if she was trying to stand up and run to him despite her restraints.

Conor dashed across the club, fell to his knees, and carefully removed the cloth gag that had been tied around her mouth. She opened and closed her jaw a few times, careful, stretching.

“Are you all right?” Conor asked urgently.

“I’m all right.” Her voice was rough, and Conor thought she had been crying.

He wrapped his arms around her, desperate to give comfort. “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re all right now. We’re going home.”

“Conor, wait, listen, you don’t understand.”

He didn’t need to understand anything. His entire plan had slipped from his mind as if it had been oiled. She was here, and there was no one stopping him from untying her and taking her home. His hands moved to the ropes that bound her and he began to pull at the knots.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said.

Conor froze. He turned slowly, trying to make out who had spoken, but he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness. “Who’s there?”

Cold laughter. “Who do you think, Conor?”

Did he recognize the voice? He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t O’Flannagan—the Irishman’s accent would have given him away. He ran through a mental list of O’Flannagan’s cohorts, trying to put a face with the voice he heard.

Then a figure stepped forward from the shadows.

“I’m surprised you never figured it out,” he said quietly. “I thought you were more clever than that.”

Conor gasped as the man’s face came into view. “Henry?”

Chapter 35

Henry Wilson stepped out of the shadows.

“You should have figured it out,” he said quietly. “I thought surely you would. I thought you must. Who else could have executed such a plan? Who else could be behind everything that’s happened in the last few days?”

“O’Flannagan—”

Henry scoffed. “Killian O’Flannagan never had anything to do with it,” he said. “That man is soft, a coward and a simpleton. He’s not capable of putting together any kind of complex scheme. Just look at his track record. In all the years you and he have been rivals, the most he’s ever done against you is to start a few rumors.”