Page 58 of Killaney Fire

I straighten, every instinct screaming. I turn and watch as he disappears into the crowd, taking a mental note to watch out for him.

Time passes in a blur of bids and laughter, and Keira's smile never falters.

She leans toward one of her coordinators, I think. "Are there any more water bottles under the chairs by you?"

The woman shakes her head. "No, sorry. I think we're out."

Keira sits back, and I notice the slight furrow in her brow, the way she presses her lips together.

"I can get you some water if you'd like," I say.

She turns to me. "What? Are you sure? I can?—"

"It's all right. Stay here. I'll be right back."

I need distance anyway, take a walk to get some thoughts out of my head.

Because what I've thought about more than once was wanting to lean in and press my mouth to the curve of her neck just to see if her skin tastes as good as it smells.

I move through the crowd, forcing myself to think about anything else.

But my mind replays the night in fragments.

Her laugh. The way she looks in her dress. How she leaned into me like she belonged there.

The way she didn't pull away.

I've carried wounded soldiers through warzones. I've extracted high-value targets under fire. I've lost men I called brothers.

But this, this is different. It isn't war. It's her.

I should report this to Callum. Request reassignment. Walk away before I compromise her safety.

But the thought of someone else standing at her side, touching her waist, shielding her… it's worse than the risk.

So screw that. I'm staying.

Even if it destroys my discipline, even if it costs me everything, I can handle this professionally. I’m sure I can manage my own fucking emotions.

I reach the bar and signal the bartender for water, but movement catches my eye.

That guy again. But his hands are trembling and he rapidly checks his watch. Sweat beads on his forehead as every instinct I've honed over a decade screams at me.

Threat.

Another man runs up to him and talks fast. They start to run and crash right into a couple, knocking the man's wife to the ground. He starts yelling as others rush to help her up.

I should follow them. Track them and neutralize them if necessary, but Keira is across the room, surrounded by people who wouldn't recognize danger until it was too late.

So here is my choice: follow the threat or go back to her.

One of the man's hands dips into his jacket pocket and pulls out a black control, a remote of some kind, as they bolt toward the exit.

My pulse spikes.

I abandon the water and cut back through the crowd, moving fast.

People turn, startled by my speed, but I don't care; something's wrong.