Page 6

CHAPTER

SEVEN

The apartment shrinks with Sorcha asleep on my couch. I stand in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug forgotten in my hand, watching her sleep. She's curled into herself, one hand tucked under the pillow where I know she keeps a knife.

Smart woman. Beautiful woman. Dangerous woman.

She wakes when I move closer, those gray eyes snapping open with combat alertness that no bartender should possess.

"Morning," she says, sitting up. My t-shirt rides up her thigh, exposing smooth skin that makes my mouth go dry.

"Coffee?" I manage.

"Please."

I pour two mugs, hyperaware of her moving behind me. When I turn, she's stretched like a cat, arms above her head, my shirt pulling tight across her breasts. No bra underneath. My cock responds immediately.

"Sleep well?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.

"Better than I have in months." She accepts the coffee, fingers brushing mine. Electric. "Thank you. For keeping me safe."

"Job isn't finished yet."

"Is that all this is? A job?" Her eyes hold mine, challenging.

Dangerous territory. I change direction. "Tell me about your father."

She stiffens. "What about him?"

"You mentioned he was a cop. How'd he die?"

The question hits like I intended. She sets down her coffee, walls rising.

"Ambush. Drug dealers he was investigating." Her voice goes flat. "I was fourteen. Found out from the news before anyone came to tell me."

"Fuck. I'm sorry."

"He taught me to fight before he died. Said the world was brutal to women who couldn't protect themselves." She meets my gaze. "He was right."

Something raw in her voice calls to the broken parts of me. "Afghanistan. Lost my unit in an IED attack. Sometimes the dead are the lucky ones."

Understanding passes between us. Shared trauma creates bonds stronger than attraction.

"Is that why you don't sleep?" she asks.

"Among other reasons." I drain my coffee. "I need to handle something. Two hours max. Stay here. Lock the door. Don't answer it for anyone."

"What if?—"

"No exceptions." I grab my jacket. "There's food in the fridge. Entertainment system has everything. Just stay put."

She nods, but something flickers in her expression. "Be careful."

The concern in her voice stops me cold. When I turn back, she's watching me with an intensity that has nothing to do with self-preservation.

"Always am," I lie.

The meeting with Tiernan's contact drags past three hours. Security concerns at the docks. Rival families testing boundaries. The usual territorial bullshit that keeps our world spinning.

I return to find my apartment empty.

Every muscle tenses. I draw my gun, clearing each room methodically. No signs of struggle. No blood. Her bag remains by the couch, clothes still in the bathroom.

She left voluntarily.

My phone buzzes. Text from unknown number: Had to step out. Back soon. - S

Rage builds in my chest. I gave specific orders. Stay put. Lock the door. She disobeyed, putting herself at risk and undermining my authority.

I'm pacing when she returns twenty minutes later, key turning in the lock like she has every right to come and go as she pleases.

"Where the hell were you?" I demand before she's through the door.

She jumps, hand moving toward her purse. "Jesus, you scared me."

"Answer the question."

"I needed air. Went for a walk around the block." She hangs up her coat, avoiding my eyes. "I was careful."

"I told you to stay here."

"I'm not a prisoner, Eamon."

"You are exactly that until I say otherwise." I close the distance between us. "You want to know why? Because three people are dead because of last night. Because there's a contract on anyone connected to our business. Because I'm responsible for keeping you alive."

Her chin lifts in defiance. "I can take care of myself."

"Like you did at the warehouse? When you needed me to save your ass?"

Color floods her cheeks. "That was different."

"Was it? Because from where I stand, you're a civilian who keeps making choices that could get you killed." I step closer, forcing her to look up at me. "And for some reason, that bothers me more than it should."

The admission hangs between us. Her lips part, breath coming faster.

"Why?" she whispers.

"Because I want you alive. Not just breathing, but alive. Safe. Here." My hand moves to her face without permission, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "And that's a problem."

"Why is it a problem?"

"Because wanting things gets people killed in my world."

Her eyes darken. "What if I want things too?"

The question hits me like a punch. She moves closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, feel the heat radiating off her skin.

"Sorcha." My voice comes out strained.

"What if I want you?"

My control snaps. I back her against the door, hands braced on either side of her head. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

I crash my mouth against hers, claiming rather than asking. She responds instantly, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. She tastes like coffee and something uniquely her—addictive and dangerous.

Her leg wraps around my hip, pressing her core against my thigh. I groan into her mouth, grinding against her until she gasps.

"Eamon." My name on her lips sounds like a prayer.

I bite her neck, marking her. "You're mine to protect. Mine to keep safe."

"Yes." She arches against me. "Yes."

My hand slides under her shirt, finding bare skin. She's soft and warm and perfect. When I palm her breast, she cries out, head falling back against the door.

"Tell me you want this," I demand against her throat.

"I want this. I want you."

I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her toward the bedroom. She weighs nothing in my arms, but the way she clings to me makes me feel like I could conquer armies.

We reach my bed when her phone rings.

The sound cuts through our haze like a blade. She stiffens in my arms.

"Ignore it," I growl, capturing her mouth again.

But the damage is done. She pushes against my chest, sliding down until her feet touch the floor.

"I have to take this."

"No, you don't."

She's already reaching for her phone. "It's work. I'm sorry."

The call goes to voicemail. Immediately, it rings again.

"Shit." She looks at the screen, face going pale. "I really have to take this."

Something cold settles in my stomach. "Who is it?"

"My boss. From Chicago. There's a situation at one of our other locations." She's already backing toward the bathroom. "Give me five minutes."

The door closes behind her. I stand in my bedroom, hard as steel and suspicious as hell.

Her voice carries through the thin door—tense, professional. Words like "timeline" and "evidence" and "federal prosecutor."

My blood turns to ice.

I move closer to the door, straining to hear.

"—can't push any harder without blowing my cover?—"

Cover.

"—need more time to build trust?—"

Trust.

"—he's starting to suspect something?—"

Me. She's talking about me.

The call ends. Water runs in the sink. When she emerges, her face is composed, but her hands shake.

"Everything okay?" I ask, voice deadly calm.

"Yes. Just work drama." She forces a smile. "Where were we?"

"You tell me." I cross my arms. "What kind of work emergency requires discussion of cover stories and federal prosecutors?"

Her face goes blank. "I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do." I step closer. "Just like you knew exactly where to search my apartment while I was gone."

"I didn't search?—"

"My bedroom drawer. The one that sticks. You went through my things while I was protecting you."

Guilt flashes across her face before disappearing. "I was looking for aspirin."

"In my personal effects? Next to my service medals and medication?" I laugh without humor. "Try again."

"Eamon, you're being paranoid."

"Am I? Because right now you look like someone who got caught lying." I move closer until she backs against the wall. "What's your real name, Sorcha? Who sent you?"

Her chin lifts. "You're scaring me."

"Good. You should be scared. Because if you're what I think you are, we have a serious problem."

"What do you think I am?"

"Federal agent. Maybe FBI. Maybe DEA." I brace my hands on either side of her head. "The question is whether you're hunting me or using me."

Her pulse hammers in her throat. "You're wrong."

"Then prove it." I lean closer, mouth inches from hers. "Tell me why a bartender knows tactical hand signals. Why you fight like someone with military training. Why your work emergencies sound like law enforcement briefings."

"I don't know what?—"

"Stop lying." My voice drops to a whisper. "I've killed federal agents before, Sorcha. What makes you think I won't kill another one?"

Fear flickers in her eyes, but underneath it burns something else. Defiance. Attraction. The same hunger that nearly consumed us minutes ago.

"Because you want me too much," she says.

The truth of it hits like a physical blow. I do want her. More than my next breath. More than safety or sanity or survival.

"That's the problem," I admit. "I want you so much I might let you destroy me."

Her eyes soften. "I'm not here to destroy you."

"Then what are you here for?"

She opens her mouth to answer when my phone explodes with alerts. Emergency notifications from every security system we own.

"Fuck." I grab my gun, checking the messages. "Warehouse hit. Docks compromised. They're moving on all our operations."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter." I shove ammunition into my pockets. "You're staying here. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."

"Eamon, wait?—"

I pause at the door, looking back at her. Standing in my bedroom wearing my shirt, looking like everything I never knew I wanted and can't afford to keep.

"When I get back," I say, "we finish this conversation. All of it."

"And if you don't come back?"

The question stops me cold. "Then you disappear. New name, new city, new life. Whatever you're really after, it dies with me."

I leave her there, surrounded by my things, holding my secrets. Either the most dangerous woman I've ever met or the only one worth dying for.

Time will tell which.