Page 11

CHAPTER

TWELVE

The fever burns through Eamon like wildfire. One hundred and three degrees, and climbing. I press a cool cloth to his chest, watching sweat bead across his skin as he tosses restlessly on the narrow bed.

"Eamon." I lean over him, my hair brushing his shoulder. "You need to drink something."

His eyes open, unfocused and glassy. "Sorcha?"

"I'm here." I slip my arm behind his neck, helping him sit up. The movement brings us close—his bare chest against my arm, his breath hot on my neck. "Drink."

He takes a few sips before collapsing back. The bullet wound in his shoulder has turned angry red, infection spreading despite my efforts to keep it clean.

"Hurts like hell," he mutters.

I examine the bandage, noting how the fever makes him compliant. Vulnerable. The dangerous enforcer who terrifies half of Boston lies helpless while I tend his wounds.

"I need to clean this again," I tell him, gathering supplies.

He nods weakly. I peel away the soaked bandage, revealing inflamed flesh. His body tenses as I work, removing infected tissue.

"Hold still," I murmur, one hand pressing his chest down while I clean the wound.

"Can't." His breathing grows ragged. "Everything's spinning."

I lean across him to reach the antiseptic, my body covering his. The position puts my breasts against his chest, and even burning with fever, his hands find my waist.

"Sorcha," he whispers, gripping me tighter than necessary.

"Just cleaning the wound," I say, though I don't pull away.

His hands slide up my sides as I work. "You smell good. Like vanilla and something else."

"Gunpowder," I reply without thinking.

He laughs, the sound rough. "Perfect combination."

I apply fresh bandages while his hands roam my back with fevered possessiveness. This man who barely touches anyone clings to me like I'm his anchor.

"Stay close," he says as I finish. "Don't like being alone when the dreams come."

"What dreams?"

"The docks. Tommy Castellano." His eyes drift shut. "All the faces. The first time I had to... handle things for the family."

My pulse quickens. Confessions during fever—exactly what the Bureau needs. But instead of recording, I find myself stroking his damp hair.

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen. Dad said it was time to prove myself." His grip on my waist tightens. "Guy was skimming from our territory. Had to send a message."

I should be taking notes. Should be documenting every word. Instead, I watch pain cross his features.

"Been carrying bodies ever since," he mutters. "Starting with Thomas Nolan."

My breath catches. "Thomas?"

"The accountant. Collins said he was selling us out to the feds. Made it seem like he'd destroy the family." His voice breaks. "But he wasn't. Just found Collins stealing money. I killed an innocent man because I was young and stupid and wanted my father's approval."

The confession I've hunted for months spills out while he burns with fever and need. His hands explore my body like he's afraid I'll disappear.

"Should have known better," he continues. "Guy had kids. A regular life. Didn't fit."

I lean down, my lips near his ear. "Collins manipulated you."

"Doesn't matter. I pulled the trigger." His arms encircle me completely now, pulling me down against his chest. "Been trying to balance the scales since. Saving kids, stopping the worst shit. But it doesn't bring him back."

"Eamon—"

"Promise me something." His fevered eyes lock on mine. "If something happens to me, make sure Collins pays. He's still out there, still pulling strings."

"Nothing's going to happen to you."

"Promise me."

I nod, knowing I'm crossing every professional line. "I promise."

He pulls my mouth down to his, kissing me with desperate hunger. The fever makes him unrestrained, all walls down. I respond despite myself, tasting his need and vulnerability.

When I pull back, he's unconscious again.

I sit there shaking, my body still thrumming from his touch. Three months building this case, and now it comes through moments of genuine intimacy I can't bring myself to exploit.

My phone buzzes. Byrne: Status update required immediately.

I type back: Subject recovering. Will report soon.

His response: Need concrete evidence. Time running out.

I stare at Eamon's sleeping form, then slip away to explore the safe house. The main room seems ordinary until I notice a loose panel behind an old painting.

Inside, a metal box holds documents the family keeps separate from regular business. Financial records. Territory maps. Communication logs.

I photograph each page methodically. These show the full scope of their operation—territory divisions, rival family conflicts, protection schemes across the city.

Then I find something that stops my heart cold.

Payment records to FBI agents. Not small bribes, but substantial monthly payments for intelligence. Strategic information about investigations, raid schedules, witness locations.

Agent Riordan Byrne's name appears throughout the documents.

My handler. My supervisor. The man who assigned me to infiltrate the Kavanaghs.

I sit back, mind reeling. If Byrne works for them, this entire operation is compromised. Every report I've filed, every piece of intelligence—all filtered through a corrupt agent.

But why assign me to investigate his own benefactors? What's his real game?

I photograph the corruption evidence with trembling hands. This changes everything about my mission, my safety, who I can trust.

"Planning to steal those?"

Eamon's voice freezes my blood. I turn to find him in the doorway, pale but alert, gun trained on me.

"Looking for more medical supplies," I say, closing the box.

"In a hidden compartment?" He steps closer, weapon steady despite his injury. "Try again."

"I heard something. Thought someone might be?—"

"Cut the shit." His voice turns deadly calm. "Professional movements. Professional search technique. Who the fuck are you?"

My mind races. "I told you?—"

"Bartenders don't move like federal agents. Bartenders don't know how to find hidden compartments." He kicks my purse across the floor.

Contents spill everywhere—makeup, keys, phone, and my emergency FBI badge.

Eamon goes white as he picks up the badge. "Special Agent Sorcha Quinn."

The words hang between us like a death sentence.

"You can explain this," he says, voice dangerously quiet.

"Eamon—"

"You're federal." He reads the badge again. "You've been investigating my family while I protected you. While I..."

His voice trails off, realization hitting.

"While you what?" I ask.

"While I fell for you." The admission sounds like it costs him. "While I told you things I've never told anyone."

"My feelings are real."

"Your feelings?" He laughs bitterly. "Your job was to fuck the information out of me."

"That's not?—"

"How much did you record? The fever confessions? Me telling you about Thomas Nolan?"

I don't answer, which tells him everything.

"Of course." He shakes his head. "Every vulnerable moment. Every time I trusted you."

"The corruption evidence changes things. Byrne?—"

"I don't give a shit about corruption." He advances on me, gun lowered but fury radiating from every line of his body. "You let me fall for you while building a case against my family."

"It wasn't supposed to happen."

"What wasn't? The feelings or getting caught?"

I back against the wall as he closes the distance. Even injured and betrayed, he's dangerous. "Both."

"Both," he repeats. "Honest at last."

He plants his free hand against the wall beside my head, caging me in. This close, I see the devastation in his eyes beneath the anger.

"Was any of it real?" he asks quietly.

"All of it. Every touch, every moment?—"

"Except the part where you're federal."

"I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did." His voice drops to a whisper. "You destroyed the first real thing I've felt in years."

His phone rings. He steps back to answer, keeping the gun on me.

"What?" he answers harshly.

"Eamon, we have a problem," comes Cillian's voice. "Moran's people hit three of our operations tonight. They knew exactly where to strike."

Eamon's eyes narrow on me. "How'd they know?"

"Inside information. Someone's feeding them intelligence."

"Someone like a federal agent?"

Silence on the line. "Where is she now?"

"Right here. Caught her going through Dad's private files."

"Bring her in. Dad wants to question her himself."

"No," Eamon says, surprising me. "She's my problem. I'll handle it."

He hangs up and studies me with cold calculation.

"Please," I say. "The corruption evidence?—"

"Proves your people are as dirty as mine." He grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the door. "Doesn't change what you did."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we can have a proper conversation. Without interruptions."

The promise in his voice makes my blood run cold. I've seen what Eamon does to people who betray his family.

Now I'm about to become one of them.