Page 2

CHAPTER

THREE

Blood still stains my knuckles when I push through Finnegan's door. The Murphy crew won't be moving drugs through our territory again—not after tonight's lesson in boundaries.

Every head turns when I enter. Respect earned through violence commands attention in ways money never could. The new bartender doesn't look up from wiping glasses, auburn hair catching light from the Guinness sign above her head.

Interesting.

"Evening, Mr. Kavanagh," Mickey calls from behind the bar.

I nod, eyes fixed on the woman beside him. She moves with purpose—no wasted motion, no nervous energy. Her body language screams competence wrapped in civilian clothes.

"Jameson. Neat." I lean against the scarred wood, studying her profile.

She reaches for the bottle without hesitation, pours two fingers with hands that don't shake. Most people get nervous around me. She seems bored.

"Eight dollars."

I drop a twenty, watching her add it to tips without the usual gratitude show. No batting eyelashes or leaning forward to display cleavage. Just quiet efficiency that raises every alarm in my head.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Sorcha." She meets my eyes directly. No fear, no flirtation. Just assessment.

Green eyes like broken glass—beautiful and dangerous. My cock responds before my brain catches up, blood rushing south despite every instinct warning me she's trouble.

"Irish," I observe.

"So is half of Boston." She returns to her work, dismissing me.

The challenge sends heat through my veins. Women don't dismiss Eamon Kavanagh. They submit, seduce, or run. This one does none of those things.

My phone buzzes with territory updates, but I ignore it. Watching her navigate the crowd provides better entertainment than business reports. She tracks every customer while appearing focused on drink orders—professional-level awareness disguised as bartender charm.

A drunk dock worker grabs her wrist. "How about some personal service, sweetheart?"

Her stance shifts subtly. Weight balanced, ready to strike. "Let go."

"Just being friendly?—"

She applies pressure that makes him release with a pained grunt. No scene, no drama. Just controlled violence delivered with a smile.

My dick throbs at the display. A woman who handles herself appeals to parts of me I thought were dead. The warrior recognizing another warrior.

"Problem?" I ask, moving closer.

"Handled," she replies, wiping down the bar like nothing happened.

The dock worker rubs his hand, confused. Smart enough not to try again.

I spend the next hour watching her work. Every movement calculated, every response measured. She commands respect through competence rather than vulnerability—a predator hiding among sheep.

When trouble walks through the door Saturday night, I'm ready for it.

Three Murphy enforcers swagger in like they own the place. My territory, my rules. Time to remind them why that's a bad idea.

They order whiskey but keep scanning the room. Hunting, not drinking. The leader—Tommy "The Knife" Brennan—spots a regular customer's girlfriend sitting alone.

"Why don't you drink with real men?" he says, sliding into her booth.

Her boyfriend stands on shaking legs. "She's with me."

"Not anymore." Tommy's hand rests on the table, fingers drumming. "Walk away, boy. Before someone bleeds."

I start moving, hand inside my jacket.

Sorcha appears beside their table carrying empty glasses. "Excuse me. I need to clear this."

Tommy looks up, grinning. "Busy right now, gorgeous."

"House policy." Her voice stays pleasant while her eyes turn arctic. "Tables get cleared every hour."

"Or what? You'll report me to management?" He laughs, standing to tower over her. "I am management now."

"No." She sets down her tray with deliberate care. "You're a dead man who doesn't know it yet."

The threat hangs in the air like smoke. Every conversation stops as twenty pairs of eyes focus on this small woman facing down a killer with nothing but attitude.

Tommy reaches for her. Fatal mistake.

Sorcha moves like death itself. Her elbow drives into his throat while her knee finds his groin. He collapses, gasping for air through his crushed windpipe.

His partners rush forward. She grabs a beer bottle, breaks it against the table, and faces them with the calm of a professional killer.

"Gentlemen," she purrs, holding jagged glass like a scalpel. "Time to bleed."

My cock hardens watching her work. This is no bartender—this is a predator unleashed.

The second enforcer pulls a knife. She throws the bottle fragment with sniper precision, opening his wrist to bone. While he screams, she vaults the table and drives her knee into the third man's temple.

Three professional killers unconscious in under thirty seconds. One woman standing over them without breathing hard.

The pub erupts in cheers. Sorcha smiles and returns to collecting glasses like she just served drinks instead of dispensing violence.

I approach while she washes blood from her hands. The sight of crimson swirling down the drain makes my dick pulse with want.

"Impressive display," I say.

She doesn't look up. "Just doing my job."

"Your job involves killing people?"

"My job involves protecting customers." She dries her hands, meeting my gaze. "Those men threatened innocents in my territory."

Territory. Not section or area. She thinks like a soldier.

"Where did you learn to fight?"

A pause. "Ex-boyfriend. Former Special Forces. Said a woman alone needed skills."

Plausible but practiced. Her movements showed training beyond civilian instruction—military precision disguised as self-defense.

"Must have been quite a teacher."

"He had his moments." Her tongue darts across her lower lip, and I imagine that mouth doing other things. "Will there be anything else?"

Using my name without introduction. Another detail that doesn't fit.

"Call me Eamon."

"Eamon." She tastes the sound, and I want to taste her. "Strong name. Suits you."

Heat builds between us—predator recognizing predator, violence leading to other hungers.

"What brought you to Boston, Sorcha?"

"Opportunity. Fresh start."

"From where?"

"Chicago. Southside."

Every answer precise but vague. Professional evasion wrapped in casual conversation.

"Big change."

"I adapt." Her eyes hold mine. "To whatever the situation requires."

The double meaning sends blood rushing to my cock. This woman radiates danger and sex in equal measure—exactly what my twisted soul craves.

"Everyone hides something," I observe.

"What are you hiding?" she challenges.

"The urge to bend you over this bar and find out what you're really hiding."

Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't back down. "That would be unprofessional."

"I don't do professional when it comes to women who kill for sport."

"Who says I kill for sport?"

"Your eyes." I lean closer, close enough to smell her skin. "They're the eyes of someone who's taken life and enjoyed it."

Her pupils dilate. "And if they are?"

"Then we have more in common than you think."

The air crackles with violent attraction. Two killers circling each other, testing boundaries and finding mutual recognition.

"The Murphy crew won't forget tonight," I tell her. "They'll want blood for the humiliation."

"Let them come." No fear, just anticipation.

"They will. With guns, not fists." I straighten, decision made. "Which is why you're under my protection now."

"I don't need?—"

"You're getting it anyway. My territory, my rules."

Her chin lifts in defiance that makes me want to grab her throat and show her who's really in charge here.

"Is that an order?"

"Call it professional interest." I drop money on the bar. "I'll be in touch, Sorcha from Chicago."

Walking away requires effort when every instinct screams to stay and claim what I want. But anticipation makes everything sweeter.

Tomorrow I'll discover what secrets she's hiding. Tonight, I'll imagine all the ways I plan to break her careful control.

Because women who fight like angels of death don't randomly appear in my territory without cause.

And I intend to uncover every dangerous, deadly inch of her.