Page 8

CHAPTER

NINE

The pub buzzes with Saturday night energy when everything goes to hell.

I nurse my Jameson at the end of the bar, watching Sorcha work.

She moves between tables with practiced grace, carrying trays and dodging wandering hands.

Three weeks of watching her, and I still catch new details—how she counts tips without looking down, how she remembers every order without writing anything.

The front door opens. Cold air rushes in along with three men I recognize.

Lorcan Moran strides through Finnegan's like he owns the place. His crew flanks him—two massive guys who scan the room while their boss adjusts his expensive coat. Every conversation dies as heads turn.

Moran commands attention without trying. Red hair slicked back, green eyes calculating every face in the room. Designer suit that costs more than most people make in a month. The kind of man who never gets told no.

He spots Sorcha right away.

I set my glass down and shift position. Better angle if things go bad. The regular customers sense trouble—conversations resume but voices stay lower. Everyone knows what Moran represents.

Territory war.

Sorcha finishes taking an order and heads toward the kitchen. Moran intercepts her path, blocking the narrow passage between tables.

"Excuse me," she says.

"Sorcha Quinn." His voice carries over the background noise. "I don't think we've been introduced."

She stops. Every instinct I developed in Afghanistan screams warning. Moran didn't come here for a drink.

"I don't know you," Sorcha replies, stepping sideways.

Moran moves with her, keeping himself between her and the kitchen. "Lorcan Moran. I own several establishments in this neighborhood."

"This isn't your establishment."

His smile never reaches his eyes. "Neighborhoods change. Business relationships evolve."

I stand up from my stool. Three steps closer. Close enough to act if needed.

Sorcha glances around the room, noting the attention they're drawing. Smart—she knows this conversation affects more than just her.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"To discuss your safety." Moran's tone stays conversational, but his meaning cuts clear. "Beautiful woman like you, working late hours in questionable territory. Accidents happen."

The threat hangs in the air like smoke. I count his guys—two visible, one more outside. Standard formation for a public approach.

"I can take care of myself," Sorcha says.

"Can you?" Moran steps closer. "This neighborhood has seen increased violence. Dock workers getting hurt. Shipping containers going missing. Dangerous times for innocent people."

My hand moves toward my jacket. Combat instincts take over.

"What kind of safety are you offering?" Sorcha asks, voice steady despite the obvious threat.

"Protection. Insurance. Peace of mind." His smile widens. "All very reasonable rates."

"And if I'm not interested?"

"Everyone's interested in staying safe."

The front door chimes again. Tommy Flanagan enters—one of our crew. He spots Moran and positions himself near the exit. Good. Blocking escape routes.

Moran notices too. His eyes flick toward Tommy, then back to Sorcha.

"Think about it," he tells her. "I'll be in touch."

He turns to leave and sees me standing three feet away.

"Eamon Kavanagh." Recognition sparks in his eyes. "Didn't see you there."

"Just having a quiet drink." I keep my voice level. "Enjoying the atmosphere."

"Neighborhood establishments should maintain their character."

"They do. Under proper management."

We stare at each other. Two predators taking measure. He knows I'm armed. I know he's calculating odds.

"Give my regards to your father," Moran says.

"I'll do that."

He walks toward the door, his crew following. At the threshold, he pauses.

"Ms. Quinn," he calls back. "Remember what I said about safety."

The door closes behind him. Conversations resume, but tension lingers.

Sorcha stands where he left her, hands clenched into fists. When she looks at me, I see controlled fury instead of fear.

"Friend of yours?" she asks.

"Business acquaintance."

She nods toward the kitchen. "I need to finish my shift."

I watch her work for the next three hours. Every time the door opens, she glances up. Every time a new customer enters, she tracks their movement. Smart survival instincts.

When closing time arrives, I wait while she counts the register and wipes tables. The other staff leave one by one until we're alone.

"You can't go home tonight," I tell her.

She looks up from stacking chairs. "Excuse me?"

"Moran knows where you live. Where you work. Where you shop." I lean against the bar. "He made his play public to send a message."

"What message?"

"That you're vulnerable. That the Kavanaghs can't protect their own territory."

Sorcha slams a chair down harder than necessary. "I'm not Kavanagh property."

"No. But you work in Kavanagh territory. That makes you mine to protect."

The words hang between us, loaded with more meaning than I intended. Her eyes widen at the possessive edge in my voice.

"I didn't ask for protection."

"You didn't ask for threats either."

She moves around the bar, organizing bottles with sharp movements. Anger management through busy work. I track every step, every gesture. The way her jeans hug her hips. How her shirt rides up when she reaches for the top shelf.

"Where am I supposed to go?" she asks.

"Safe house. Family property outside the city."

"For how long?"

"Until we settle things with Moran."

She stops moving. "Settle things how?"

I don't answer. Some things civilians don't need to know.

"I won't hide," she says. "I have a job. A life."

"You won't have either if Moran decides you're more useful as an example."

Her jaw tightens. "There has to be another way."

I consider options. Moving her means acknowledging weakness. Leaving her exposed invites attack.

"I stay at your place," I say. "Direct protection."

"Stay where?"

"Your apartment. Until the threat passes."

She stares at me. "You want to move in with me?"

"I want to keep you alive."

"By sleeping on my couch?"

"By staying close enough to make sure nothing happens to you."

Her laugh has no humor. "This is insane."

"Moran threatened you in public. That requires a response." I step closer, close enough to smell her perfume mixed with the scent of beer and whiskey from work. "Either you disappear, or I stay close enough to protect what's mine."

The possessive words slip out before I can stop them. Her breathing changes, becoming shallower.

"I'm not yours," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

"Tonight you are."

She considers this, weighing options. I see her calculating angles, escape routes, contingencies. The woman thinks like a tactician.

"Fine," she says. "But I set the rules."

"Such as?"

"You sleep on the couch. You don't touch my things. You don't answer my phone or door. And this ends the minute Moran backs off."

"Agreed."

"And you cook. I'm not your maid."

I can manage that. "One more thing."

"What?"

"If you snore, I'm sleeping in your bed with you."

Her face flushes. "I don't snore."

"Good to know."

She grabs her jacket and heads for the door. I follow her into the night, scanning shadows for watchers. Three blocks to her building. My eyes drift to the sway of her hips as she walks, the confident stride that draws attention from every man we pass.

Mine to protect. The thought burns through me.

Her apartment occupies the second floor of a converted triple-decker. Two bedrooms, small kitchen, living room that barely fits a couch and television. Clean but sparse. The kind of place someone keeps when they don't plan to stay long.

"Bathroom's there," she says, pointing down a short hallway. "Towels in the closet. I sleep with the door locked."

"Smart practice."

She disappears into her bedroom. I hear the click of a deadbolt.

I check the windows—fire escape access, good sight lines to the street. Front door has decent locks but needs reinforcement. Kitchen knives sharp enough for defense if needed.

The couch looks comfortable. I've slept in worse places.

From behind her bedroom door comes the sound of running water. Shower. My mind conjures images I shouldn't be thinking—water running over skin I've never seen, hands I've watched serve drinks now washing away the day.

I push those thoughts aside and check my gun. Full clip, one in the chamber.

The water stops. Footsteps across hardwood. Her door opens a crack.

"Eamon?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For tonight. For staying."

"Just protecting what's mine."

Silence stretches between us through the thin door.

"Is that what I am?" she asks. "Yours?"

The question hangs in the air like a challenge. I want to kick down that door and show her exactly what she is to me. Want to pin her against the wall and claim her mouth until she stops asking stupid questions.

Instead, I grip the arm of the couch until my knuckles turn white.

"Get some sleep, Sorcha."

Her door closes. The deadbolt clicks.

I settle onto the couch with my gun within reach. Outside, Boston sleeps while I guard a woman who's becoming an obsession.

Through the thin walls, I hear her moving around. The soft sound of fabric hitting the floor. A drawer opening and closing. The creak of mattress springs as she settles into bed.

I close my eyes and try not to picture her in whatever she wears to sleep. Try not to think about how easy it would be to pick that lock and join her.

Tomorrow we'll establish routines. Set boundaries. Pretend this arrangement is professional.

Tonight, I listen to her breathe through thin walls and plan all the ways I want to make her mine.