Page 17

FINN

T he door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Finn staring at the empty space she'd just occupied. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his breath dragged in—tight, unsteady. His heart gave a low, reluctant thud, as if it too recognized the weight of what just passed between them. He exhaled slowly, pressing a palm against the doorframe for balance, fighting the urge to follow. Not yet. Not while the words between them still echoed like live wires in the air. For a long beat, he didn’t move.

Regret flared sharp in his chest, tempered by longing and a pulse of helpless anger.

He hated this helplessness, this ache he couldn’t kill or claim.

It wasn’t in his nature to wait, but for her—he would.

For now. Her scent lingered in the air like smoke after a fire—warm, bittersweet, impossible to ignore.

It clung to him, curling in his chest, a phantom ache he couldn’t shake.

Keira’s retreat echoed in his chest—spine straight, breath shaking—as she walked away. He let her go because she said she needed space, but a sharp edge of doubt gnawed at him. Did she really? Or was that just her armor talking?

Every muscle in him screamed to follow, to bridge the aching distance. But pressing her now—after what he'd revealed—could drive her away.

So he did the hardest thing he'd ever done. He let her go. For now.

He stood quietly, the echo of her presence still ghosting over his skin. The taste of the conversation, of her uncertainty and his restraint, still lingered like something half-swallowed. He knew one thing for certain, this wasn’t over.

Finn adjusted the waistband of his sweatpants and stepped out of his study, moving quietly up the stairs. At the top, he paused in the shadowed hallway outside the primary suite, the silence stretching between them like a taut thread—strung tight with need, caution, and everything they hadn’t said.

After a long moment, he exhaled and turned away, bare feet whispering over the polished floor.

He walked down the corridor and slipped into the guest suite.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, sealing off the tension he’d left behind.

He needed a shower—needed the heat and solitude to clear his head before he faced her again.

But it gnawed at him. Every minute dragged, stretched thin like wire drawn too tight. She’d left him at the altar, and all he’d been left with was fury and betrayal. He told himself he’d let her go—but the truth was, he never really had.

He remembered the blur of days after, the wreckage of that morning pounding through his skull like a war drum. The chapel’s stained-glass windows had bled morning light across empty pews, his vows ash on his tongue, tuxedo suffocating as the truth set in—she wasn’t coming.

Con had tried to pull him away from the altar, but his feet had stayed rooted, as if he could will her back with sheer force of need.

Grief had come first. Then the rage—white-hot, feral.

He’d punched a wall, bloodied his knuckles.

And then the search. Quiet, surgical. He’d told no one.

Not even Con. For months, he scoured cities, trailed shadows—snippets of data, whispered sightings.

London. Paris. A club in Barcelona that played deep and harbored ghosts.

He caught her scent once in a Dublin train station and chased it until he lost it in a crowd.

Then, finally, a solid lead—an old hacker contact in Prague swore she’d seen Keira.

He had a name, an address. A one-way flight booked.

And then—he stopped. Pride wrapped cold fingers around his throat.

She left, didn’t she? Walked away without a word.

She hadn’t looked back—just vanished like smoke, leaving behind silence and the bitter scorch of abandonment that cut deeper than any blade, slicing through bone and pride alike.

If she didn’t want to be found, maybe she didn’t deserve to be.

He’d told himself it was mercy. That letting her disappear was the kinder choice. That she didn’t want him.

And it had cost them years. Years when he could’ve held her. Fought beside her. Built something real.

Instead, he'd walked the streets of Prague, fists in his coat pockets, watching her old haunts from a distance he told himself was safety—but it was cowardice.

Every time he got close, the question burned—what if she turned him away again?

What if she hated him? What if the pain in her eyes was deeper than anything he could fix?

But he hadn’t stopped dreaming. Not once.

Her voice haunted his sleep, soft curses and clever laughter echoing in the void.

His need for her never dulled—it sharpened, honed itself into something jagged and brutal.

Something he buried in work and war, in strategy and syndicate politics. But nothing drowned it out.

Now she was back in his orbit, close enough to touch—but no more his than she had been then. An hour. Then another. Pacing the length of the guest suite like a caged thing, trying to get his breath to slow, his instincts to heel.

He stepped out of the shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and walked back to the primary suite. He opened the door to find her standing by the window, wrapped in one of his old dressing gowns, staring through the glass like it held answers. She turned slowly as he entered, her expression unreadable.

"You said you needed to breathe," he said quietly, voice pitched low. "I let you."

He took a step closer, squaring his shoulders to hide the vulnerability gnawing at his center. His tone hardened, more shield than strength as he met her gaze. "You're still under my protection, Keira. That comes with boundaries I won’t compromise on."

Her eyebrow arched. "Rules, huh? Am I allowed to negotiate, or is this more of a 'do as I say or else' situation?"

Finn crossed the room in three strides, stopping just short of touching her. "You can question them all you like, but they stand. No sneaking out. No disabling any of the security systems. You don’t leave the lawns or courtyard here at the house without me or my men."

"So much for trust," she scoffed.

His lips tightened. "It’s not about trust. It’s about keeping you breathing. Which, despite everything, I still care about more than I should."

The silence stretched between them, thick with emotion and unspoken need.

He wanted to close the distance, to pull her in and lose himself in the warmth of her skin, the weight of her presence—but not now.

Not when fear still lingered in the air like smoke, and every nerve in him was strung tight with restraint.

Shaking his head, he took a step back.

"I’ll be sleeping in the guest room. Just down the hall if you need anything."

He turned and walked out before she could stop him, his jaw tight, every step a silent act of control. The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, like the hush before a blade drops—sharp, irrevocable, and echoing with everything he hadn’t said.

Hours passed. The darkness deepened even as the moon crept higher into the sky to play hide-and-seek amongst the clouds.

The fire in the guest room had dwindled to embers, but Finn hadn’t slept. He’d tossed his shirt onto the bed as soon as he entered and stretched out on the too-small bed in his jeans, staring at the ceiling like it might offer salvation.

Then came the soft knock—a hesitant, almost apologetic sound that made Finn’s breath still in his chest. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at the door, listening to the silence that followed, heart thudding like a war drum in the aftermath of battle.

He didn’t need to ask who it was. He knew.

She opened the door without waiting for an answer. Her eyes were shadowed, her mouth a tight line. There was no trace of her usual sarcasm or defiance, only stark determination. No games. No snark. Just Keira, stripped of pretense, standing in his doorway like a storm held in check.

"I can’t sleep," she said simply.

He sat up, muscles tensing. "You shouldn’t be here."

"I know. But I didn’t want to be alone."

"Keira..."

"Don’t. Just… I don’t know what I want, Finn. But I know it’s not a cold bed and this distance between us."

Her voice wavered, tinged with a raw edge of vulnerability Finn hadn’t heard from her before—a tremble that cracked through her usual strength and settled deep in his chest, raw and unexpected.

It was unguarded, unpolished—like she’d peeled back one of the last layers of defense and left it bare between them.

Keira’s breath hitched audibly. For a heartbeat, she looked like she might bolt—eyes wide, jaw set—as though saying the words had taken more strength than she thought she possessed, and now she wasn’t sure she could survive their echo.

He stood slowly, hands clenched at his sides. She looked up at him, emotions churning just beneath the surface. "You don’t get to use me to feel less alone, Keira.”

She stepped closer, her gaze steady. "And you don’t get to pretend you don’t want me here."

His growl was low, feral. "You have no idea how badly I want you. But you walked out on me once. Do you not get that you can just open my veins and let me bleed? You've always had that ability, and god help me, I don't care. If you stay, I'm going to fuck you, and I won’t stop."

Her breath caught. She stepped into him, placing her hands flat against his chest. "Then don’t stop. Just promise me one thing."

He looked down at her, heart thudding. "Anything."

"That this doesn’t make me yours again. Not yet."

His hands slid to her waist, grip firm. "Fair enough. But I need your words, Keira. Consent. No games."

She nodded. "I want this. I want you. But I don’t want pain tonight. No belts. No ropes. Just... heat."

He bent his head, brushing his mouth over hers as he swept her up in his arms and carried her back to bed. If he was going to have her, he meant to have her in his bed where she belonged.