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CHAPTER

FOUR

I wake to wrongness. Three years of undercover work taught me to trust my gut, and every instinct screams danger. The apartment feels violated.

Someone's been here.

The evidence shows in details others would miss. My coffee mug sits askew when I placed it parallel to the counter. Books pushed back wrong on shelves. The bathroom door cracked open when I always shut it tight.

Professional work. Too careful for thieves, too skilled for amateurs. This was a search—methodical and thorough.

I check my hidden security devices. Two are missing. Whoever did this knows their business.

My secure phone buzzes: Emergency meet. Roosevelt Park. One hour.

Byrne's timing feels deliberate. Either he knows about the break-in or someone's watching us both.

Neither option offers comfort.

Roosevelt Park provides multiple exits and decent cover—why we use it for emergency contacts. I arrive early, feeding ducks while scanning for threats.

Byrne shows up looking like hell. Wrinkled suit, bloodshot eyes, nervous energy that sets my teeth on edge.

"We have a problem," he says, dropping beside me on the bench.

"Someone searched my place last night."

His head jerks toward me. "When?"

"Professional job. Disabled my security measures, found my hiding spots." I watch his reaction carefully. "They were hunting for something specific."

"Undercover work creates paranoia. You're imagining?—"

"I'm not imagining missing equipment." My voice hardens. "Someone burned my safe house."

"Which you shouldn't have equipped without clearance." He stands, pacing. "The real issue is results. Weeks in position with nothing substantial to show."

I study his profile, noting how he avoids my eyes. Wrong reaction for a handler whose agent faced compromise.

"Intelligence development takes time. I can't just ask about criminal operations."

"Time we don't have. The task force wants results or reassignment." He checks his watch with sharp movements. "Get closer to the targets. Use every advantage."

"Meaning?"

"You're an attractive woman around dangerous men. Work with what you have."

The suggestion hits like a slap. "You want me to sleep with them for information?"

"I want progress. How you achieve it..." He shrugs. "Forty-eight hours, Quinn. Produce something substantial or this ends."

He walks away without backward glance, leaving me with growing suspicions about my handler's true agenda.

Finnegan's pub sits empty when I arrive two hours early. I need space to think without watchful eyes tracking every movement.

The back door opens with deliberate sound. No attempt at stealth.

Eamon Kavanagh fills the doorway, raw masculinity and barely leashed violence in perfect combination. He moves like a predator claiming territory.

Heat floods my body despite every rational thought. This man represents everything I should fear, yet my pulse quickens at his presence.

"Early today," he observes, closing the door with finality.

"I prefer being ready." I continue wiping tables, projecting calm while attraction wars with training.

He approaches with measured steps, hands visible but threat implied. "Ready for what, exactly?"

"Work."

"Work." His mouth curves without warmth. "Tell me about Montana."

Ice replaces the heat in my veins. Montana anchored my cover story—childhood in ranch country that should resist verification.

"What about it?"

"Funny thing about small towns. They remember everyone." He stops close enough that his scent invades my space—leather and danger and pure male heat. "Called every school in your county. No Sorcha Quinn in their records."

The cover cracks in real time. Professional identity work, but someone made mistakes only deep investigation would reveal.

"Records get lost?—"

"The ranch you claimed to live on?" He steps closer, crowding me against the bar. "Sold to developers before you were born."

My back hits polished wood. He braces one hand beside my head, caging me with his body. The position screams dominance while my treacherous nervous system responds to his proximity.

"Maybe I misremembered?—"

"Maybe you're lying." His voice drops low, intimate despite the accusation. "Question is why."

His free hand traces my jaw with deceptive gentleness. The touch sends electric shocks down my spine even as my mind catalogs the threat he represents.

"Careful," I warn, though my voice lacks conviction.

"I'm never careful." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Makes life more interesting."

The front door chimes, shattering the moment. Eamon steps back as an older man enters—silver hair, expensive coat, presence that commands instant respect.

Tiernan Kavanagh. The patriarch himself.

"Eamon." Authority resonates in his voice. "Introduce me."

"Sorcha Quinn," Eamon replies, tension radiating from his frame. "Temporary help."

Tiernan approaches with predatory grace. His assessment makes my skin crawl—not sexual, but calculating. Like examining merchandise.

"Ms. Quinn. Finding our establishment... educational?"

"The work suits me." I force steadiness into my voice.

"Work serves many purposes." He tastes each word. "We all pursue different objectives."

Both men watch my reactions with hunter's focus. The conversation carries currents I struggle to navigate.

"Which brings me here," Tiernan continues. "The Moran family has issued threats against our people. Particularly attractive employees who might overhear sensitive discussions."

Dread pools in my stomach. Direct targeting by rivals.

"What kind of threats?"

"The fatal kind." His smile never reaches cold eyes. "Eamon will provide protection."

"That's unnecessary?—"

"It's decided." Steel enters his tone. "You belong to us now. We guard what's ours."

The possessive phrasing makes my flesh crawl, but I nod acceptance. Refusal would escalate suspicion.

"Excellent." He checks an expensive watch. "Eamon, escort Ms. Quinn home. Review her security situation thoroughly."

He exits as abruptly as he arrived, leaving expensive cologne and implied menace in his wake.

Eamon and I face each other across charged silence.

"This is unnecessary," I tell him.

"Tell the Morans that." He moves toward the exit. "Car's outside."

"I handle my own security."

"Not anymore."

His Mercedes purrs through Boston traffic while tension builds between us. Eamon drives with controlled aggression, taking corners too fast while his jaw stays locked.

Every instinct screams danger, but not from external threats. The real risk sits eighteen inches away, radiating lethal appeal that my body refuses to ignore.

"This doesn't change anything," I say finally.

"Doesn't it?" His eyes flick to mine before returning to the road.

"You still suspect me."

"Suspicion and protection aren't mutually exclusive." His voice carries dark promise. "I can guard you while deciding whether to trust you."

"How reassuring."

"I'm not here for your comfort."

We stop outside my building—converted warehouse in a neighborhood gentrification forgot. Eamon studies the street with professional disgust.

"No security. Multiple access points. Perfect for ambush." He shakes his head. "Whoever chose this place wanted you vulnerable."

"It was affordable."

"Cheap gets you killed."

He insists on escorting me upstairs, cataloging every weakness. Narrow hallway. Poor lighting. Fire escape leading to empty alley.

At my door, I hesitate. Allowing him inside crosses boundaries I can't uncross.

"Keys," he commands, extending his hand.

"What?"

"Security inspection. Keys or I pick the lock."

I surrender them, watching him move through my space with efficient authority. He checks windows, tests locks, examines potential sniper positions.

His presence transforms my sanctuary into something smaller, more intimate. Every surface he touches seems to burn with residual heat.

"You live like you're planning to run," he observes, noting sparse furnishings.

"I don't accumulate things."

"Or you don't plan on staying." He turns from the window, pinning me with intense scrutiny. "Which is it, Sorcha?"

The way he says my name—like a caress and threat combined—makes my breath catch. We stand too close in my small space, electricity crackling between us.

"I stay where I'm wanted."

"And if you're not wanted?" He steps closer, crowding me against the wall. "What then?"

His body radiates heat, masculine power that makes rational thought impossible. I should push him away, maintain boundaries, remember my mission.

Instead, I meet his stare with defiant challenge.

"Then I make myself indispensable."

His pupils dilate at my words. For a moment, the hunter's mask slips, revealing raw hunger underneath. His hand rises toward my face before he catches himself.

"Dead bolts aren't enough," he says, voice rougher than before. "You need reinforced windows. Motion sensors. Safe room."

"This isn't a fortress."

"It is now." He moves toward the door, distance returning with visible effort. "Upgrades start tomorrow. Until then, you don't go anywhere alone."

"And if I do?"

He pauses at the threshold, looking back with promise in his eyes.

"Then you'll discover what Kavanagh protection really means."

The door closes with finality, leaving me breathless and aching. His scent lingers—leather and danger and pure temptation.

My phone buzzes: Progress report. Now.

I stare at Byrne's message, thinking about violated apartments and missing handlers. About protection that feels like possession. About attraction to a man who could destroy everything.

Forty-eight hours to produce results or face career termination.

But standing in my empty apartment, skin still tingling from Eamon's proximity, I wonder if my heart might surrender first.

The game just became infinitely more dangerous.

And I'm no longer certain who's hunting whom.