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KEIRA

B oston smelled like blood and salt.

The cab driver dropped her off two blocks from her destination. Not invited—summoned. She still didn’t know who the hell her mystery client had been—only that they’d sold her debt like it was a piece of meat at the market.

Someone delivered the message with a clipped Belfast accent, conveying a feeling far colder than a simple monetary transaction.

Now, like some twisted mafia Cinderella, Keira walked into a glass tower in Boston—miles and years from the chapel in Galway she’d fled, broken, in sneakers and a silk wedding dress.

Back then, it had been candles, white roses, and the man she loved waiting at the altar.

But she’d run from all of it—Finn, her dreams, her life—because she finally saw the truth: her uncle had set her up, bartering her to clean up a mess she hadn’t made.

Now, she was walking into another kind of trap, older, sharper, and a hell of a lot more jaded—with nothing but her pride in one pocket and a feeling of dread tightening at the base of her spine.

She yanked her hoodie tighter around her shoulders.

The wind bit beneath the threadbare cotton as if Boston knew of her past sins and held a grudge.

The chill wasn’t just cold—it was personal, like the city had been waiting for her to crawl back to the life she’d tried to leave so it could slap her with every mistake she’d ever made.

The building was high end, all mirrored glass and sleek stone. The doorman took one look at her and nearly swallowed his tongue until she muttered the code phrase: “He knows I’m coming.” And then continued with, “Don’t make me hack your security system.”

His radio crackled. A nod later, she was on her way up. All the way up. To the penthouse, of course. Nothing like being humbled by altitude.

The elevator doors opened to silence. Clean, sterile, and cold as hell—until her boots stepped onto marble and the scent hit her.

Leather. Aged whiskey. Smoke curling like memory.

Power thick enough to taste. The scent hit her like a sucker punch of memory—every heated night, every whispered vow twisted into something sharp.

Her stomach clenched. Her knees damn near buckled.

It was like a knife to the heart, dragging her back to nights tangled in silk sheets and whispered promises that turned into lies.

It was him. It was always him. And her body remembered before her brain had a chance to protest.

Finn.

“Oh no,” she whispered to no one. “Nope. No…”

“You’re late.”

His voice had changed little—deeper, maybe.

Rougher. Still laced with that dry, wicked Irish edge that used to make her toes curl and her heart thud in warning.

It was the kind of voice that slipped past your defenses, curled around your spine, and whispered promises you couldn’t afford to believe.

A voice that could fuck you senseless or ruin your life—and make you beg for both.

Keira pivoted, ready to bolt, but he was already behind her, spinning her around to face him.

Finn O’Neill stood like a goddamned ghost—impossibly tall, tailored black suit clinging to broad shoulders, arms crossed, expression carved from shadow.

His hair was a little longer, beard sharper, but those eyes... slate-gray. Still sharp enough to cut through every lie she wanted to wrap herself in.

“You’ve got five seconds to explain why I’m here before I do something dramatic and regret it later,” she snapped, chin lifted like she wasn’t quaking inside.

Finn didn’t move. Not even a twitch. “Try it, a stór . I dare you.”

Her breath caught. Not because of the endearment. He used to call her that. No—because of the way he said it. Low. Lethal. Like it still meant mine, like he dared her to deny it.

She took a shaky step back. “This is bullshit. I don’t owe you or the man who holds your leash.

Con O’Neill’s quarrel was with my father and sister, and he killed them.

I have no doubt they tried to kill him first, but none of it has anything to do with me.

I don’t know what Con and my uncle believe, and I don’t care.

I never signed up for some—some mafia kink ransom. ”

Finn cocked an eyebrow. “This has nothing to do with your family or what they tried to do to Con. You took a contract that put you square in the cross hairs of two members of the royal family in Dubai. You didn’t vet the person from whom you took the contract.

That wasn’t wise of you, but it’s not my fault. ”

“You bought me?”

“I bought your debt,” he said coolly, stepping forward. “If I bought you, I wouldn’t be offering a deal, and if I hadn’t bought the debt, you’d be dead.”

“Bullshit,” she hissed again.

“Truth,” he countered. “You screwed up, but one of the two men who placed a price on your head wanted something from Con. He agreed to give it to them in exchange for your life. I bought the debt you owed Con from him.”

“You can’t go around buying and selling people like property or merchandise.”

“You keep saying that, Keira. But here you are.”

“No one gave me a choice.”

He stopped in front of her. Too close. Always too close. She refused to back down.

“I should’ve let you hang back then,” he said softly. “I should’ve let Con put a bullet in your kneecaps, drop you to your knees, and use that talented mouth of yours until you broke. But I stepped in. Gave you a choice.”

“You call that a choice? Or this?” she shot back, but her voice wavered.

Some part of her—deep, stubborn, and stupid—still wanted to believe he meant it.

That there was a version of this where she wasn’t just being maneuvered again.

That if he’d ever truly fought for her, maybe this wasn’t punishment. Maybe it was something else.

“You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

Keira growled under her breath. “You know, I used to find you charming.”

“You were mine... you still are.”

Silence.

He didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. And suddenly, all the years melted away, and it was just them again—staring across a chasm of hurt and history, the air between them thick with words never spoken, her name hovering on his lips like a loaded gun—part promise, part threat.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t. Don’t do that. I left for a reason.”

“You ran,” he corrected. “You ran on our wedding day, Keira. Left me standing at the altar in front of everyone—no call, no note, just gone. I was ready to burn the whole damn world down for you, and you disappeared like I never meant a thing.”

She swallowed hard, fury and guilt twisting like barbed wire in her throat. “I wasn’t a sacrificial lamb—yours, Con's or my uncle's. Thank god, I figured that out in time.”

“I never offered you up.”

“No, everyone else did. You were the one to whom they were sacrificing me!”

Finn stepped forward slowly, closing the space between them like it was his to take.

Keira didn’t stop him. She raised one trembling hand and pressed it flat against his chest, not to hold him back—but to feel him, real and solid and too close.

His heart thundered beneath her palm. Then his hands came up, threading through her hair with reverence and restraint, tilting her face up to his like a vow.

That dark, hungry heat she thought she’d buried roared to life, curling around her like smoke and memory.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said, voice softer now. “And I sure as fuck never stopped wanting you.”

Her laugh cracked, brittle and raw. “That’s not reassuring. It’s a damn warning label—and you know it.”

Reassurance would have meant safety, comfort, softness, something she hadn’t known since she was a girl.

And Finn—he was the opposite of safe. He was sharp edges and dangerous heat, the kind of man who could ruin her with a word, a look, a kiss.

Even so, some traitorous part of her ached for the wreckage.

He stepped even closer, so close she had to tilt her chin up to keep staring him down. His breath was warm against her cheek. “You think I don’t know what it’s like, Keira? To realize the people you trust would sell you for the right price?”

His fingers brushed her wrist. The barest touch.

Electricity. Fire. Her breath caught, chest tightening as memories surged—his hand gripping hers as they danced in the dark, his touch after long nights tangled together.

She told herself she hated him, but her skin didn't lie. It sparked. Reacted. Reached for more.

She snatched it back as if she’d been burned.

But he wasn’t done. “You think I didn’t fight for you? Con may have told me to take you as a bride, but I wanted you. I could have refused. I chose you, and I waited.”

“For what?” she asked, voice breaking before she could catch it.

“For you to come back.”

Her throat worked. “You didn't wait. You ordered me here.”

He shrugged. Regret flickered in his eyes, or perhaps the ache of a man left too long in the cold. It was gone in a blink, buried beneath steel and command, but it hit her like a punch to the gut all the same.

“You’re only waiting for an excuse or even a chance to disappear... again.”

Keira’s hands balled into fists. Finn’s jaw tightened, just a fraction—enough to betray the crack in his armor. “Maybe that's because every time I even think about letting you touch me, I forget how to breathe.”

He smiled, reaching up slowly, cupping her jaw with one broad, calloused hand. She hated that she leaned into it. Hated how much her body remembered him.

“That’s not fear, a stór. That’s instinct.”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

His thumb stroked over her lower lip, and she shivered.

“I’ll stop when you stop trembling every time I touch you.”

“You’re an arrogant bastard.”

“You’re flushed, trembling... soaking wet. I can smell your heat, Keira.”

She slapped his hand away, heart pounding, furious at herself. “God, you’re....”