Page 11

FINN

F inn watched the color drain from Keira’s face. Her spine didn’t bow, didn’t bend—but he knew the signs.

She’d gone still—the way prey does when it senses a predator nearby.

Not fear, exactly—Keira didn’t frighten easily—but a razor-edged alertness.

He’d seen that look before, in a few of Con’s best men right before a hit.

And he imagined she must have looked that way years ago, just before she disappeared without a word, leaving him at the altar, bleeding in front of everyone they’d ever known.

Cathal Lynch had that effect on people.

“I’ll handle it,” Finn said, voice low.

Her expression shuttered, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. But after a beat, she gave a single nod—small, stiff, like the weight of it cost her something. That was trust, whether she liked it or not. The kind that lived buried under bruises and betrayal, raw and reluctant but real.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Finn pulled it out, saw Con’s name, and exhaled through his nose.

"I have to take this," he told Keira, already turning for the stairs.

He left her in the basement control room and took the call from Con upstairs in his office.

He needed the separation—not just for the security of the conversation, but because seeing her unravel and not reaching for her was already costing him more than it should.

The moment the door clicked shut, Finn leaned back against it, every muscle in his body tense. The line connected with a soft chime. Con’s face filled the screen, rain soaked and windswept from his country estate on a private island off the coast of Ireland.

“Finn,” Con greeted, glass of whiskey already in hand.

Noting the whiskey, Finn asked, "That bad?"

Con grinned. “It’s well past midday here in Ireland. You look like absolute shite, by the way.”

“You should see the other guy,” Finn muttered. “What’s going on?”

Con’s smile vanished. “Riordan’s not the only one sniffing around Boston.

One of the gobshites from the Dubai job’s made his way across the Atlantic.

Whether he’s flying solo or someone’s pulling his strings, it’s no accident.

Word is he’s already touched base with a few of the dodgier lads skulking about your city. ”

“Names?”

“Still working on it, but you’d best get your house in order, Finn. If word gets out that Keira’s under your roof...”

“I know.”

Con studied him through the screen. “You look wrecked, lad. Getting any kip at all?”

“Define sleeping.”

The O’Neill chuckled without humor. “Mind your flank, lad. Cathal might be the devil she knows, but even the feckin’ devil’s got his pets.”

“Yeah,” Finn said, jaw tight. “He’s knocking on my damn door.”

“Then it’s time to remind him whose bloody castle he’s banging on.”

"Already done. Donal will send him away and make sure he understands that it is the O'Neills who hold Boston."

"Damn straight. Good lad."

The call ended. Finn stood there a moment longer, fists clenched, the echo of Con’s voice still hanging in the room like smoke.

Con didn’t give warnings unless the storm was already on the horizon—and this one was close enough to taste.

Finn paced once, twice, then planted both palms on the desk, grounding himself.

Keira’s face flashed behind his eyes. If the bastards from Dubai were in Boston, they’d already be hunting.

And she was the prize they’d kill to collect.

Back downstairs, Keira was still at the terminal, her fingers flying over the keys like her nerves might riot if she stopped.

Her shoulders were tight, hunched with tension, but her hands moved with clean, precise efficiency.

She didn’t look up, didn’t break stride in the code she was building, but her voice cut through the hum of equipment—sharp, on edge, and coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“So?” she asked.

“Cathal’s leaving. I made sure of it.”

“Pity. I didn’t get to tell him to go to hell first.”

His lips twitched. There she was.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Oh, let me guess—this is the part where I clutch my pearls, collapse in a dramatic swoon, and beg you to save me from the big bad?”

Finn chuckled. “You always were good with metaphors.”

She spun the chair toward him, eyes narrowed. “What now?”

Finn felt the flicker of a grin tug at the corner of his mouth.

She wasn’t backing down—never had, not when it mattered.

That fire, the defiance in her gaze, did something sharp and reckless to him.

It was maddening. Addictive. And familiar enough to remind him exactly why losing her had left such a crater in his life.

“You need to learn control.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

He extended a hand. “Come upstairs.”

The top floor of the brownstone was locked behind a steel-core door with a biometric scanner. He hadn’t taken anyone up there in years—not since he moved into the place after Galway, when the ashes of their almost-wedding were still warm in his chest.

Not since everything fell apart. When the door slid open, Keira stepped into the space and stopped cold.

The dungeon spread out before her like a shrine to restraint and power.

Keira took one step inside and faltered.

Her eyes swept over the gleaming wood and brushed steel, over cuffs that gleamed like jewelry under recessed lighting, and heavy chains that hung like quiet threats.

Her breath caught. Not in fear—never fear—but in that gut-deep awareness of exactly what this place represented.

Her arms folded tightly across her chest, as if she could shield herself from memory.

He caught the way her breath hitched, just for a second.

Her pulse stuttered—he could feel it even from across the room, or maybe he was just that in tune with her.

Polished wood gleamed under soft overhead lights.

Stainless steel rigs and dual-purpose training gear were arrayed with the kind of precision only obsession could build.

Padded mats absorbed sound, while mirrored walls stretched the room into something endless.

It was a space designed for control—and every inch of it reminded him of her.

“I see you’ve kept busy,” she said, voice dry.

“It’s not just for play,” he said. “A lot of this doubles as a gym. Strength. Balance. Control.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And you brought me here to... what, relive the glory days?”

He stepped onto the mat and turned to face her. “I brought you here to see if you remember how to fight.”

“I didn’t come here to spar with you, Finn.”

“No, but if you want to survive, you'll do as I say. Con says one of the bastards from Dubai is here in Boston. Your survival just got more complicated.”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not helpless.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine. But if I break your nose, I’m not apologizing.”

He grinned. “You won’t.”

They circled. Her movements were sharp, defensive, honed by instinct more than training.

Finn clocked each step, calculating. She still moved like she expected to get hit, not like someone confident in her ability to win.

But there was grit in her stance, and when she struck, it wasn’t tentative.

He was surprised—not just that she remembered how to move, but that she wasn’t afraid to challenge him.

That spark of hers hadn't dimmed. If anything, it burned hotter now.

He moved slower, deliberate, letting her push first. She struck low—an attempt to unbalance him.

He parried, grabbed her wrist, and twisted.

She twisted, pivoting hard on the ball of her foot, and used the momentum to snap her leg out in a clean arc.

Her heel slammed into the meat of his thigh with enough force to make the muscle seize.

It wasn’t just fast—it was controlled, calculated.

A strike meant to sting and remind him she wasn’t just here to play by his rules.

Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate.

His thigh pulsed where she’d landed the kick, muscle already tightening.

But beneath the ache, pride roared to life—hot, primal, and laced with something dangerously close to admiration.

She wasn’t just fighting back; she was fighting him, with focus and power.

And damn if it didn’t make him want her more.

“Not bad,” he murmured.

She huffed. “I haven’t been sitting on my ass, Finn.”

He lunged with force, aiming to close the distance.

She ducked under his arms, fast and fluid, her instincts sharp.

He caught her ankle mid-move, twisting just enough to unbalance her, and swept her legs with a fluid, practiced motion.

She hit the mat hard, the impact echoing off the walls—but she didn’t hesitate.

She rolled to her side, sprang up, her momentum building into a full arc, and her fist came swinging in a blur.

It connected squarely with his jaw, snapping his head slightly to the side with a clean, bone-ringing crack.

The crack echoed, sharp as a gunshot in the quiet space.

She froze mid-breath, arm still extended, eyes wide as if even she hadn’t expected to land the blow.

A flicker of something crossed her face—shock, maybe a sliver of regret, or worse, the surge of satisfaction that came with finally hitting back.

His smile was slow, feral. “Better.”

Keira’s breath was ragged. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Immensely.”

Another exchange—punch, counter, grapple.

Finn felt the rhythm of her body, the way she moved with intent and control.

She wasn't flailing; she was adapting, learning him again like a dance she'd once known by heart.

Her breath was loud, ragged, but her eyes never wavered from his.

A sliver of sweat tracked down his temple as he matched her, holding back just enough to test her limits.

But even in the control, his pulse pounded with something wild.

This wasn't just sparring—it was a storm barely held at bay.

He pressed her to the mat, her wrists pinned above her head. Their bodies aligned, chests heaving.

“Finn—”

He didn’t move. Just stared down at her, voice low and rough. “Still think this is about play?”

She glared. “No. I think this is about control.”

He bent slightly, brushing his lips near her ear. “Then you understand what’s at stake.”

Her pulse thundered beneath him—he could feel it where his hips pressed into hers, the rapid flutter just beneath her skin.

His own restraint pulled taut, muscles straining with the effort not to grind down into her, not to give in to the magnetic pull that had never dulled.

Every nerve was on edge, the beast in him pacing behind his control, restless and hungry.

Every inch of her was taut with tension she refused to show.

But her voice—God, her voice—stayed level, even. “Let me up.”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a dare wrapped in silk—taunting, velvet-edged and dangerously calm.

And it punched straight through his restraint, stirring something feral and possessive in his gut.

He wanted to dominate that defiance, to tame it without breaking her.

But that wasn’t the game they were playing. Not yet.

He didn’t release her right away.

Instead, he searched her face—anger, challenge, and that ever-present defiance tangled with something hotter.

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes dilated, lips parted on a breath she hadn’t taken.

It would be so damn easy to tip the scale, to bury himself in the heat of her and take what he’d been denying himself for years.

But this wasn’t about easy. It never was.

And he’d be damned if he touched her without knowing what burned behind those eyes was real—and meant for him.

His voice was hoarse. “Not until you admit you don’t want me to.”

She went still.

A beat.

Then another.

The air between them fractured, sharp as a crack of thunder. Keira’s gaze locked with his, daring him to see past the words. Her voice came low, wrecked and raw. “I don’t.”

And just like that, the tether snapped.

Finn’s breath left him in a rush—not from surprise, but from the violent need that roared to life deep within him. Because no matter how she said it, it wasn’t a rejection. It was a confession dressed in defiance, and it changed everything.