Page 4

CHAPTER

FIVE

I watch Sorcha wipe down the last table at Finnegan's, her movements efficient despite the late hour. Three days since the warehouse incident, and I can't shake the feeling we're being watched.

My phone buzzes. Connor at the docks.

"Moran's people asking questions about the redhead," he says. "Asking by name."

My blood turns cold. "What kind of questions?"

"Where she lives. When she works alone. If she's got protection."

"Double security at the pub. I'm handling this personally."

I hang up and cross the empty bar. Sorcha looks up as I approach, reading the tension in my face.

"We need to talk," I say. "Now."

She sets down her rag. "What's wrong?"

"Moran knows about you. You're not safe here anymore."

Her face pales but she nods. Smart woman doesn't argue when death comes calling.

Twenty minutes later, I follow her beat-up Honda to her apartment building. The neighborhood makes my skin crawl— too many blind spots, too many ways for enemies to approach unseen.

Inside her cramped apartment, I check every window while she stands by the door, arms crossed.

"Your security is nonexistent," I say, testing the flimsy deadbolt. "These locks won't stop a determined child, much less Moran's crew."

"It's what I can afford."

I turn to face her. "Pack a bag. You're staying somewhere safe tonight."

"Where?"

"With me."

The words hang between us. Her eyes widen as the implications sink in.

"That's not necessary?—"

"It is." I move closer, backing her against the door. "Moran doesn't make idle threats. He targets what matters to send a message."

"I don't matter to you." Her voice wavers.

"Don't you?" My hand braces against the door beside her head. "Because I seem to remember you stepping between me and a gun without hesitation."

Her breathing quickens. "That was instinct."

"This is instinct too." My thumb traces her jawline. "The need to protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours."

"Aren't you?" I lean closer, my mouth inches from hers. "Then why does the thought of Moran touching you make me want to burn his organization to the ground?"

She stares up at me, pupils dilated. The air between us crackles with electricity.

"Pack your bag, Sorcha. We leave in ten minutes."

My apartment sits above the pub in a converted loft space. One bedroom, one bathroom, sparse furniture that serves function over comfort. Military precision meets bachelor living.

Sorcha sets her overnight bag by the door, taking in the space. "Where am I sleeping?"

"My bed." I toss my keys on the kitchen counter. "I'll take the couch."

"You don't have to?—"

"I'm not negotiating this." I pour two glasses of whiskey, offering her one. "Moran wants to hurt me by hurting you. The best way to protect you is to keep you close."

She accepts the drink, our fingers brushing. The contact sends heat up my arm.

"This is just until the threat passes," I add.

"Right. Just temporary."

But the way she looks at me suggests she's thinking the same thing I am—nothing about this feels temporary.

I call my security team while she explores the apartment. Through the bedroom doorway, I watch her run her fingers over my dresser, my bookshelf. Seeing her in my private space does things to me that have nothing to do with protection.

"Full sweep and upgrade," I tell Martinez. "Motion sensors, cameras, reinforced entry points. This location is now classified as high-priority."

After hanging up, I find Sorcha on my balcony overlooking the pub. Boston spreads out below us, city lights reflecting off harbor water.

"Nice view," she says.

"It serves its purpose." I join her at the railing, close enough to smell her shampoo. "Tomorrow I'll take you to meet my family. Sunday dinner is mandatory when you're under Kavanagh protection."

"Your family?"

"My parents. My brother Cillian and his woman Orla." I sip my whiskey. "They'll want to assess you."

"Assess me for what?"

"Whether you're worth the trouble of protecting."

She turns to face me. "And if they decide I'm not?"

"They won't." I meet her eyes. "But if they did, it wouldn't matter. You're under my protection, not theirs."

The intensity in my voice surprises us both. Sorcha's lips part, and I find myself staring at her mouth.

"Eamon..."

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. Just... thank you."

I want to kiss her. Want to back her against the railing and claim her mouth until she moans my name. Instead, I step away.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be complicated enough."

I lie awake on the couch, listening to Sorcha move around my bedroom. Water running in the bathroom. Dresser drawers opening as she searches for something to sleep in. The soft rustle of clothing being removed.

My cock hardens as I imagine her undressing in my space, surrounded by my scent. Sliding between my sheets wearing nothing but?—

"Eamon?" Her voice carries from the bedroom doorway.

I sit up, and my breath catches. She stands there in one of my t-shirts, the fabric falling mid-thigh. Her legs are bare, hair loose around her shoulders.

"I couldn't find pajamas in my bag," she says. "I hope you don't mind."

Mind? I'm fighting every instinct not to cross this room and strip that shirt off her body.

"It's fine," I manage.

She doesn't move. Just stands there watching me with an expression I can't read.

"The bed's too big," she says quietly. "Feels empty."

Dangerous words. Dangerous territory.

"You'll get used to it."

"Will I?" She takes a step closer. "Or is this just another way of protecting me?"

I stand up, closing the distance between us. "What are you asking, Sorcha?"

"I'm asking if you're going to make me sleep alone when we both know neither of us wants that."

My control snaps. I reach for her, one hand tangling in her hair as I back her against the wall. My mouth crashes down on hers, hungry and demanding.

She responds immediately, her arms winding around my neck as she opens for me. I taste whiskey and desire on her tongue, feel her body arch against mine.

"This is a bad idea," I growl against her lips.

"Probably." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "Do it anyway."

I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom. My bedroom. My bed. Where she belongs.

I lay her down, following her onto the mattress. My shirt rides up her thighs as I settle between her legs, the thin cotton the only barrier between us.

"Tell me to stop," I say, even as my hands slide under the fabric to find warm skin.

"No." Her hips rock against mine. "Don't stop."

I push the shirt up, exposing her breasts to my hungry gaze. Perfect. Mine.

My mouth finds her nipple, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. Her fingers tangle in my hair, holding me to her as I worship her body with lips and teeth and tongue.

"Eamon," she gasps as I trail kisses down her stomach. "Please."

"Please what?" I hook my fingers in her panties, dragging them down her legs. "Tell me what you want."

"You. I want you."

I settle between her thighs, my tongue finding her center. She tastes like heaven and sin, wet and ready for me. I work her with my mouth until she's trembling, until her thighs shake around my head.

"Come for me," I command against her sensitive flesh. "Come on my tongue."

She shatters with a cry that echoes off the walls, her body arching as pleasure takes her. I don't stop, drawing out her climax until she's boneless beneath me.

Only then do I rise above her, stripping off my clothes before settling back between her legs. My cock presses against her entrance, hard and aching.

"Look at me," I say, gripping her chin. "I want to see your eyes when I claim you."

She meets my gaze as I push inside, both of us groaning at the perfect fit. Tight. Hot. Mine.

"You're mine now," I growl, setting a rhythm that has her gasping. "Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep."

"Yes," she breathes. "Yours."

I take her hard and deep, marking her as mine with every thrust. She meets me stroke for stroke, her nails raking down my back as she claims me in return.

When she comes again, clenching around me like a vise, I follow her over the edge with a roar that comes from somewhere primal and possessive.

After, I gather her against my chest, her head on my shoulder. She fits perfectly in my arms, like she was made for this moment.

"What happens now?" she asks softly.

"Now you're under Kavanagh protection," I say, pressing a kiss to her hair. "And anyone who tries to hurt you dies."

She lifts her head to look at me. "Is that what this was? Protection?"

"No." I cup her face, thumb tracing her swollen lips. "This was me claiming what's mine."

The truth hangs between us, dangerous and undeniable. Whatever game we started tonight, there's no going back.

Sorcha Quinn belongs to me now. And I'll kill anyone who tries to take her away.