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I make my hands shake, using real adrenaline. "He grabbed me. I just... reacted."

Cillian turns to his security team. "Get them out of here. Call Patrick. This needs to handled."

The bodies 'disappear' into dark vans. Cillian walks over to me.

"Are you hurt?"

"No." I rub my wrist as if it hurts. "Just shaken up."

He points toward the car. "We're done here."

In his black Mercedes,Cillian is silent he drives a while before speaking to me.

"Where does an executive assistant learn to fight like that?" he asks.

I've rehearsed this answer. The best lies mix with truth.

"My ex-boyfriend made me take self-defense after my apartment was broken into," I say. "Three months of Krav Maga basics."

"Basics," Cillian says. "You dropped a man twice your size."

I look at my hands. "Adrenaline, I guess. The instructor said muscles remember when brains panic."

He drives, his jaw tight. "Most people freeze their first time in danger."

"I froze when my apartment was invaded," I say, another partial truth. "That's why I took the class."

"Thank you," I say. "For protecting me back there."

His knuckles are red and raw. "It's part of my job. Though you managed well enough on your own."

The car is suddenly too hot inside. Each breath seems to add to the humidity. The leather seats, the shared danger—it all creates an unwanted closeness.

I notice things I shouldn't. His jawline. A scar near his eyebrow. How his eyes check mirrors for danger every few seconds.

"Are we—" I ask. "are we being followed?"

"No," Cillian says.

We stop at a red light. His phone buzzes with texts he ignores. Heat mists up the widows—danger and attraction mixing.

"Your job description keeps getting longer," he says as we pull up to my apartment. "Spreadsheets, shipping manifests, close combat with thugs."

I offer a small laugh. "Not what I expected when I applied."

His eyes find mine. "Nothing with my family will ever match expectations."

I grab my purse, needing space from this moment, from him. My hand reaches for the door handle.

Cillian's hand closes over mine, stopping me. "Wait."

I turn back, my pulse racing so hard I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. His eyes darken as they search my face. Without warning, he moves across the center console, his hand gripping the back of my neck.

His mouth crashes against mine with raw hunger. The kiss isn't gentle—it's possessive, claiming, marking. His tongue demands entrance, and I open for him without hesitation. The taste of him—mint and adrenaline and danger—floods my senses.

My hands grab his shirt, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle. His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging my head back to deepen the kiss. A moan escapes me as his teeth catch my lower lip, biting just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity down my spine.

His other hand slides up my thigh, leaving a trail of fire through my skirt. I arch toward him, my body betraying every rational thought in my head. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath my ear.