Page 9

CHAPTER

TEN

The smell of coffee wakes me before the sound of movement in my kitchen. For a moment, I forget where I am and why there's a man making breakfast in my apartment. Then reality crashes back—Eamon Kavanagh, sleeping on my couch, his body between me and the rival gangsters who want me dead.

I wrap my robe tight and pad barefoot to the kitchen. He stands at my counter, back to me, wearing yesterday's jeans and nothing else. His shoulders show old scars—knife wounds, bullet grazes, the marks of a man who's survived Boston's streets since he was a teenager.

"Morning," I say, voice still rough with sleep.

He turns, coffee mug halfway to his lips. Dark stubble covers his jaw, hair messed from sleep. The sight of his bare chest makes my mouth go dry.

"Did I wake you?"

"No." I move to the cabinet for my own mug, hyperaware of his eyes tracking my movement. "Thank you for making coffee."

"Least I could do." He steps aside but doesn't give me much room at the machine. His body radiates heat, close enough that I catch his scent—clean male skin and danger underneath.

"You take it black?" he asks.

"Cream, no sugar."

He opens my refrigerator without asking, retrieves the carton. When he hands it to me, his fingers brush mine. The contact sends heat racing up my arm.

"Shower's yours if you want it," I offer, then immediately regret the words. Images of water running over those scars, over the muscles of his chest, flood my mind.

"Thanks. I'll grab one after you're done." His voice drops lower. "Unless you want company."

The suggestion hangs between us, loaded with possibility. My pulse jumps, body responding before my brain can stop it.

"I..." I start, then my phone rings.

Cillian's name flashes on the screen. Eamon's jaw tightens as he recognizes his brother's number.

"Take it," he says, but frustration edges his voice.

"Sorcha Quinn," I answer.

"We have a problem," Cillian says without preamble. "Moran's people hit three of our locations last night. I need all hands for a family meeting."

I catch Eamon's eye. He nods, understanding the subtext.

"Where and when?" I ask.

"Warehouse district. One hour. Eamon knows the place."

"We'll be there."

I hang up and turn to Eamon. "Your brother wants you at a family meeting."

"Us. He wants us both there." Eamon drains his coffee mug. "The attacks escalated things. You're not safe here alone anymore."

Part of me—the FBI agent part—celebrates this development. Another opportunity to observe Kavanagh family operations. But the woman whose body still burns from his casual touch feels sick at the prospect of using this access.

"I should shower first," I say.

"Five minutes," he replies, then steps closer. "We don't keep Cillian waiting."

His proximity makes breathing difficult. I escape to the bathroom, heart pounding.

The warehouse sits in an industrial area where legitimate businesses provide cover for less legal activities. Eamon parks between two black SUVs, his hand checking the gun under his jacket before we exit.

"Stay close," he murmurs, fingers finding the small of my back. "Take notes if anyone asks, but mostly just listen."

The touch burns through my shirt as he guides me inside.

The interior holds shipping containers and office equipment, but the back corner has been cleared for a conference table surrounded by chairs.

Cillian stands at the head, pointing to locations on a map spread across the surface.

Tiernan sits to his right, face grim. Three other men I recognize from FBI surveillance photos fill the remaining seats.

"Eamon." Cillian looks up as we approach. "Good. Sorcha, grab a chair. Document this."

I sit beside Eamon, pulling out my phone to use as a notepad. Every detail gets catalogued mentally while I type innocent-looking reminders. Names, locations, operational details—intelligence worth its weight in gold.

"Moran hit the dock warehouse, the Southie storage facility, and the auto shop on Dorchester," Cillian continues. "Professional jobs. In and out clean."

"Any casualties?" Eamon asks.

"Two wounded at the auto shop. Martinez and Kelly." Tiernan speaks for the first time. "They'll live."

One of the unknown men leans forward. "This is retaliation for the pub incident."

"No," Eamon says. "This is probing. Testing our response time and security measures."

Cillian nods agreement. "He's mapping our vulnerabilities."

"So what's our response?" Tiernan asks.

"Increased security at all remaining facilities. Round-the-clock surveillance. And we send a message of our own." Cillian traces a route on the map. "His drug shipment comes through the harbor tomorrow night. We intercept it."

I type rapidly, documenting locations and operational plans while maintaining the appearance of simple note-taking. This intelligence could help the FBI map the entire Kavanagh network—if I can get it to my handler.

Under the table, Eamon's hand finds my knee. The touch shoots electricity through my system, making concentration nearly impossible. His thumb traces small circles through my jeans while he discusses tactical details with his brother.

The meeting continues for another hour. I absorb everything while fighting the distraction of his casual touch, occasionally asking clarifying questions that prompt even more useful information.

"Sorcha drives with me," Eamon announces when the meeting breaks up. "Security protocol until this situation resolves."

Cillian studies us both, noting the proprietary way Eamon's hand rests on my back. "Your call. But keep her safe."

"Count on it."

Back at my apartment, I watch Eamon check the locks and windows with lethal efficiency. His movements remind me that this man has killed people. The knowledge should frighten me. Instead, it sends dark heat pooling low in my belly.

"We should upgrade your security," he says, examining the door frame. "Better locks. Camera for the hallway."

"I have a security system," I offer, seeing opportunity. "Motion sensors and door alarms. But it could use updating."

"I know a guy. Discrete. He can come by tomorrow."

Perfect. "That would make me feel safer."

"Good." He turns from the window, eyes finding mine. "I'll make some calls. Set up the appointment."

While he talks to his security contact in the kitchen, I slip into my bedroom and retrieve three FBI surveillance devices from their hiding place behind my dresser. Tiny, wireless, undetectable unless you know exactly where to look.

I plant the first behind the headboard in my bedroom, the second inside the living room lamp, and the third underneath my kitchen table. Each one will transmit to a receiver hidden in my closet, recording every conversation for later transmission to my handler.

The guilt sits heavy in my stomach. I'm using Eamon's protection of me to betray him. But this is my job. My duty. The evidence we collect could save lives.

I return to the living room as he finishes his call.

"All set," he says. "Danny will be here tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you." The words taste like betrayal. "I appreciate you taking care of this."

"Taking care of you isn't a hardship." His eyes darken. "Trust me."

The heat in his voice makes my knees weak.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, needing distraction. "I could make dinner."

"You don't have to cook for me."

"I have to eat anyway. Might as well feed us both."

He watches me move around the kitchen, eyes tracking every bend and stretch. "I can help."

"Can you chop vegetables without losing fingers?"

"I can handle a knife." His voice carries double meaning.

We work side by side, the small space forcing constant contact. His chest brushes my back when he reaches around me. His hand covers mine when he shows me his preferred knife grip. Each touch builds heat between us.

"You cook often?" he asks, voice rough.

"When I'm not living on takeout and coffee." I add garlic to oil, filling the kitchen with its aroma. "You?"

"Basic survival skills. Growing up on the streets, you learn to make meals from whatever you can find."

"How old were you? When you started working for the family?"

"Fourteen." His knife stills. "First job was collecting debts from deadbeats who thought they could hide."

"That's young."

"Kavanagh men start young." He resumes chopping. "Had to prove I belonged."

I understand the subtext. Violence. Blood. Things that would horrify normal people but shaped him into the man beside me.

"Was it hard? The first time you..." I let the question trail off.

"Killed someone?" He meets my eyes. "Easier than I expected. Scared the hell out of me how easy it was."

The honesty catches me off guard. Most people would lie, make excuses. He states it as simple fact.

"How old?" I ask.

"Sixteen. Punk tried to muscle in on our territory. Thought he could take what didn't belong to him." Eamon sets down the knife. "I showed him different."

Heat pools between my thighs at his casual mention of violence. Wrong reaction entirely, but I can't help it. This man could break someone in half without breathing hard, and he's choosing to make dinner with me instead.

We eat at my small table, conversation flowing easier than expected. He tells me about growing up in Cillian's shadow, always fighting to prove himself worthy of the family name. I share carefully edited stories about my childhood, mixing truth with fiction.

"Your father died when you were fourteen?" he asks.

"Car accident." The partial truth comes easily now. "Changed everything."

"I'm sorry."

"It taught me that nothing lasts forever. You have to take what you want while you can get it."

His eyes hold mine across the table. "Good philosophy."

After dinner, we settle on my couch to watch television. I try to keep distance between us, but he's having none of it. His arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.

"Relax," he murmurs when I stay rigid. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

The suggestion sends fire racing through my veins. I force myself to settle against him, hyperaware of every point of contact. His fingers play with my hair while we watch some mindless action movie.

"Mind if I ask you something?" he says during a commercial break.

"Shoot."

"The way you fought at the warehouse. Where did you really learn that?"

I've prepared for this question, but his directness still catches me off guard. "Self-defense classes in college."

"Self-defense." He turns to face me fully, arm still around my shoulders. "You dropped a grown man twice your size with self-defense classes."

"Adrenaline makes people do crazy things."

"Does it?" His free hand finds my thigh, thumb stroking through my jeans. "What else does adrenaline make you do?"

My breath catches. "Eamon..."

"What, sweetheart?"

The endearment, combined with his touch, makes rational thought impossible. "We shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" His hand slides higher on my thigh. "Shouldn't enjoy each other's company? Shouldn't admit there's heat between us?"

"It's complicated."

"Only if we make it complicated." He leans closer, mouth near my ear. "I want you, Sorcha. Have since the first night at the pub. But I won't push. Not unless you want me to."

My body screams yes while my mind screams danger. Professional detachment crumbles under his proximity, his scent, the heat radiating from his skin.

"I should get some sleep," I whisper, not moving away.

"Should you?" His lips brush my ear. "Or should you stop thinking so damn much and tell me what you really want?"

His hand cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. The intensity there steals my breath.

"Tell me, Sorcha. What do you want?"

The honest answer terrifies me. I want his hands on my skin. I want to taste every scar on his body. I want him to make me forget why I'm here, forget everything except the heat building between us.

Instead, I pull away. "I want to not complicate things."

Disappointment flickers across his features before he masks it. "Fair enough."

He starts to move away, but a sound from outside freezes us both. Car doors slamming. Footsteps on pavement. His hand goes to his gun while his other arm pushes me behind him.

"Lights," he whispers.

I hit the switch, plunging us into darkness. Through the window, I see two figures moving between the cars in the parking lot. They wear dark clothes and move with deadly purpose.

"Moran's people," Eamon breathes against my ear.

My blood turns ice cold. They've found me.

"Bedroom," he orders quietly. "Lock the door. Window leads to the fire escape. If shooting starts, you run and don't look back."

"What about you?"

"I can handle two men." His voice carries absolute confidence. "Go. Now."

I reluctantly obey, slipping into my bedroom but leaving the door cracked. The apartment falls silent except for my racing heartbeat.

Minutes pass like hours. Then I hear movement, voices too low to make out words. My hand finds the gun I keep in my nightstand drawer.

The front door opens and closes. Footsteps in my living room. I grip the gun tighter, finger on the trigger.

"Clear," Eamon's voice calls softly. "They moved on."

I emerge from the bedroom to find him checking the locks, shirt back on but still unbuttoned. "Are you sure?"

"Patrol sweep. They'll be back tomorrow night with more men."

The certainty in his voice makes my chest tighten. "How do you know?"

"Pattern recognition. They're escalating." He turns to face me. "This apartment isn't safe anymore."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Safe house. Family property. Isolated." His eyes find mine. "You'll stay with me until this ends."

The implications hang between us. Alone together. No interruptions. No professional distance.

"Eamon..."

"You're trembling." He appears in front of me, hands gentle on my shoulders. "Hey. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you."

The sincerity in his voice breaks my heart. This man would die protecting me, and I'm betraying him with every breath.

"I know," I whisper.

He studies my face in the dim light. "You're scared."

"A little."

"Of them? Or of me?"

"Of this." I gesture between us. "Of what happens when we're alone together."

His eyes darken. "What do you think will happen?"

"I think we'll do things we can't take back."

"Would that be so terrible?"

Yes. No. I don't know anymore.

"Pack a bag," he says, stepping back. "We leave in an hour."

As I gather clothes with shaking hands, the recording devices mock me from their hiding places. Tomorrow I'll be at a Kavanagh safe house, deeper in enemy territory than any FBI agent has ever been.

The question is whether I'll survive it with my mission—or my heart—intact.

From the living room, I hear Eamon making calls, his voice hard as he arranges our disappearance. In sixty minutes, I'll be alone with the most dangerous man I've ever met.

And God help me, I want it more than my next breath.