Page 5

CHAPTER

SIX

I follow Eamon through the maze of shipping containers, my pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the mission. He moves with predatory grace, and I can't stop watching the way his shoulders fill out his leather jacket.

Focus, Sorcha. You're here for evidence, not to ogle the target.

"Quality control," Eamon says, his Irish accent rougher today. "We check random shipments to make sure our partners don't try to fuck us over."

I pull out my phone to take notes, using the motion to photograph container numbers. Everything here connects to something larger—weapons, drugs, money. The kind of evidence that builds RICO cases.

Workers scatter as we approach, each one avoiding eye contact with Eamon. They know exactly what he's capable of.

"This one." He stops beside a container marked with Cyrillic text, muscles flexing as he punches the code. "Ukrainian associates. Electronics."

The doors swing open to reveal televisions stacked floor to ceiling. But something's wrong with the weight distribution. These boxes are too heavy for empty packaging.

"Looks legitimate," I say, fighting the urge to investigate further.

Eamon's eyes find mine, intense blue studying my face. "You notice things. I like that."

The approval in his voice sends unwanted heat through me. This is dangerous territory—not the criminal enterprise, but the way my body responds to his attention.

We move deeper into the warehouse where workers handle wooden crates with excessive care. The smell hits me immediately—cosmoline gun oil.

"Antique restoration," Eamon explains, but his mouth curves in a way that says he knows I'm not buying it.

Through gaps in the wood, I spot rifle components. Weapons shipment disguised as furniture. My training screams to document everything, but Eamon's presence beside me is distracting as hell.

"Impressive operation," I manage.

"My family doesn't fuck around."

A worker approaches, whispering urgently in Irish Gaelic. Eamon's entire demeanor shifts—from casual tour guide to lethal enforcer in seconds. The transformation is terrifying and ridiculously attractive.

"Problem?" I ask.

"Stay close to me." His hand finds my lower back, guiding me toward cover. "We've got company."

Three men enter through the loading dock. Not employees—everything about them screams threat. Dark jackets, tactical movement, hands near concealed weapons.

Eamon pulls me behind a stack of pallets, his body pressing against mine in the narrow space. Heat radiates off him, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous.

"Moran's boys," he whispers against my ear, breath hot on my neck.

I shiver despite myself. "What do they want?"

"Me. Dead, preferably."

His casual tone about death threats shouldn't be arousing. Yet here I am, trapped against his chest, fighting the urge to turn in his arms.

The searchers spread out, voices echoing off concrete. They're hunting Eamon specifically, which means I'm collateral damage if we're caught.

One approaches our hiding spot. Eamon tenses, hand inside his jacket. I count footsteps, calculating distance and angles like academy training taught me.

"This way," I whisper, pointing toward a gap between containers.

He follows without question, trusting my judgment. The confidence he shows in my abilities sends another jolt of unwanted attraction through me.

We slip between containers when gunshots explode behind us. No more hiding—this is open warfare.

"Get behind me," Eamon orders, drawing his weapon.

"Like hell."

I pull out my tactical pen. Not ideal, but I'm trained for close combat. The first attacker rounds the corner at full speed.

Eamon drops him with two precise shots. Professional, efficient, deadly. Watching him work should terrify me. Instead, I'm fighting arousal at his competence.

The second man flanks from our left. I intercept before he can fire, driving my pen into his throat. He crumples, choking.

"Fucking hell," Eamon breathes. "Where did you learn that?"

"Self-defense classes."

The third attacker gains high ground on the containers. Bullets spark off metal as we dive for cover, Eamon's body covering mine.

His weight presses me against concrete, solid muscle and controlled strength. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, steady despite the chaos.

"Suppressing fire," I gasp.

He nods, laying down covering shots while I grab a piece of rebar. The sniper adjusts position to track Eamon. Perfect opportunity.

My throw catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. His rifle clatters down. Eamon finishes him with one shot.

Silence falls. We're both breathing hard, adrenaline surging. When Eamon helps me up, his hands linger on my arms longer than necessary.

"You're bleeding," I tell him, noting the dark stain spreading across his sleeve.

"Flesh wound."

"You need medical attention."

"No hospitals. Too many questions."

I understand. Gunshot wounds trigger police reports.

"My place isn't far," he says. "You can patch me up."

The suggestion hangs between us, loaded with implications we both recognize.

Eamon's apartment surprises me with its military precision. Everything organized, clean, functional. Not what I expected from the family enforcer.

"Medical supplies are in the bathroom," he says, already pulling off his bloody shirt.

My mouth goes dry. His chest is a roadmap of scars and hard muscle, Celtic tattoos wrapping around his ribs. Evidence of violence mixed with undeniable masculine beauty.

I retrieve the first aid kit, hands shaking slightly. Professional distance, Sorcha. You're treating a wound, not ogling his body.

"Sit," I order, trying to regain control.

He complies, watching as I examine the injury. The bullet carved a furrow through his bicep—painful but not life-threatening.

"Lucky," I murmur, cleaning the wound. "Half inch right and you'd have nerve damage."

"Where did you learn medical training?"

"Required for my last job." True, though I skip mentioning FBI combat medicine.

He doesn't flinch as I work, but his breathing changes when my fingers brush uninjured skin. The contact sends electricity up my arms.

"Military?" I ask, noting old scars.

"Marines. Two tours." His voice roughens. "What about your ex? The one who taught you to fight?"

"He was... thorough in his instruction."

Lies taste bitter, but I can't tell him the truth. That my "ex" was an FBI instructor who taught me seventeen ways to kill with improvised weapons.

I apply antibiotic ointment, hyperaware of his skin under my hands. Warm, scarred, undeniably male. My training never covered fighting attraction to the target.

"Any other injuries?" I ask.

"Just bruised ribs."

I check anyway, fingers skimming over his torso. His muscles tense under my touch, and when I look up, his eyes are burning with something that has nothing to do with pain.

"Sorcha." My name sounds different in his rough voice.

"You'll live," I whisper, securing the bandage.

But I don't pull away. Neither does he. We're too close, breathing the same air, tension crackling between us like live wire.

He reaches up, fingers brushing my cheek. "You saved my life today."

"You saved mine first."

"Did I?" His thumb traces my lower lip. "Or did I drag you into something that could get you killed?"

I should move away. Should maintain professional distance. Instead, I lean into his touch, my body betraying every rational thought.

"Eamon..."

He stands, bringing us even closer. His uninjured arm circles my waist, and I can feel his heartbeat against my chest.

"This is dangerous," I breathe.

"Everything about me is dangerous." His mouth hovers inches from mine. "But you're not running."

Because I can't. Because despite every warning bell in my head, I want this. Want him.

His lips brush mine, soft at first, then demanding when I respond. I taste whiskey and danger and something uniquely him. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss turns hungry, desperate. His injured arm doesn't stop him from lifting me onto the kitchen counter, stepping between my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist, needing the contact.

"Fuck," he groans against my mouth. "I've wanted this since you walked into that pub."

"Eamon, we can't?—"

"Can't what? Feel this?" His hand slides up my thigh, thumb stroking dangerous territory. "Can't want each other?"

I'm drowning in sensation, in the need he's awakening. This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm here to gather evidence, not fall for the enemy.

But when he looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous, mission parameters become meaningless.

"Stay tonight," he whispers against my throat. "Let me keep you safe."

The offer comes with complications I can't fully process. But walking away feels impossible now.

"Okay," I breathe. "For tonight."

He carries me to his bedroom, and I realize I've crossed a line I can never uncross. Whatever happens next, it started here—in violence, medical care, and attraction too powerful to resist.

Tomorrow I'll remember I'm FBI. Tonight, I just want to be Sorcha.