Page 26

26

LOCHLAN

D raco’s pacing like a fucking animal, shoulders coiled tight like he’s gonna snap and take someone’s head off. The blinds are half-closed, light slashing across the desk and striping the floor like a goddamn interrogation room. The silence between us isn’t quiet. It crackles. Tastes like rage and burnt coffee.

“I’ve been getting calls,” he mutters, low and hard. “From people who used to owe me favors. They’re jumping ship, pulling their names out of any deal I touch. Like I’ve got a fucking disease.”

I watch him. He’s not spiraling. Not yet. Draco doesn’t spiral—he dismembers things slowly, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to fight back. But he’s close. His rage is too controlled. That’s when it’s most dangerous.

“Cormac Doyle’s running his mouth,” I say. “Leaking names. Connections. He’s turned half the TDs into cowards.”

Draco stops moving. His eyes cut to mine, flat and murderous. “I gave those bastards protection. Political cover. Free rides and padded contracts. And the second things get noisy, they toss me to the wolves.”

I let the silence drag for a breath and watch him anxiously scrape a hand over his face. “They’re not doing it loudly. They’re using back channels. Quiet pressure. You’re not being indicted—you’re being erased.”

He exhales hard, the kind of sound that should come with blood on the floor. “You got an answer, then?”

I nod slowly. “We burn a body. Not literally. Not unless we have to. But we give them someone they can crucify.”

He stares at me like I’m handing him a knife. I am.

“Tiernan Callahan,” I say. “Little prick’s been skimming since the minute you gave him a keycard. He wants to be important? Fine. We make him the story. Tech boys can rewrite his logs, bury your name, make it look like he’s been doing deals behind your back.”

Draco doesn’t answer right away. He just walks to the window, drags one blind down with a snap, watches the street like he’s picturing where the bullets might come from.

“He won’t go quietly.”

“Then we send him off in pieces.”

A beat passes. Then he mutters, “Do it.”

Draco walks out without a word. The door clicks shut behind him, but the weight of him still clings to the room. After a moment, I stand, move around the desk, and lower into his chair. It creaks under me like it knows I don’t belong. Everything here feels wrong—like sitting in another man’s skin. They want me stationed, obedient, useful in a way that doesn’t draw blood. But I’ve never been good at pretending.

The silence doesn’t leave. It freezes slowly around the bones of the room, tightening in my chest like a belt cinched one notch too far. I sit with it a moment longer, then pull the chair in and turn to the monitor. Draco’s login’s already active. His files are right where he left them. All I have to do is dig.

Whatever Doyle’s feeding to the press didn’t come from thin air. This leak isn’t a lucky guess or someone stumbling into the wrong server. It’s precise. Someone on the inside gave them a map.

I start with the network logs. Every access point leaves a mark, even if they think it doesn’t. Our tech crew likes to boast about security, but they’re only good at burying things after they go wrong. I want to see who cracked it open in the first place.

The financial logs are messier than they should be. Someone’s been inside them in the last seventy-two hours. Multiple times. Same user. I sort through the timestamps, and my stomach tightens when the name pops up.

Evelyn O’Leary.

At first, I think I’ve read it wrong. But it’s there again. And again. Same terminal. Same credentials. Accessing the protected files, the restricted servers, every page that could damn this union in the hands of someone like Cormac Doyle. It's not casual browsing, either—this was a full dive. Line-item payments, routing numbers, donation accounts tied to fake charities. Everything we’ve worked to bury.

I click deeper. Her activity log lights up the screen. She pulled files from the off-books side of the ledger. Exported copies. Some went to the printer. Others were dumped to a flash drive. The audit log shows four external devices connected over the last two days. One of them stayed plugged in for nearly forty minutes.

Forty minutes is enough to gut us.

My chest goes tight, breaths short and sharp. I force myself to slow it down. This doesn’t make sense. Evie doesn’t have access to half of this. She shouldn’t even know where to find it.

Unless someone showed her.

Unless she was looking.

I shift in the chair, fingers moving faster now, flipping through system logs, surveillance notes, building check-ins. There’s footage flagged by internal security—low priority, never reviewed. I open the files. There’s no sound, but I don’t need it. The image is enough.

Evie. Out behind the warehouse. Talking to someone I don’t recognize at first. Tall, dark hair, fitted suit, face turned away from the camera. But when he steps back, adjusting his watch, his profile’s clean as a knife.

Darren Connelly.

Doyle’s fixer. His enforcer. His shadow.

He’s standing inches from her, and she isn’t pulling away.

My hands tighten on the edge of the desk until the leather creaks. The room suddenly feels colder, smaller. The weight in my gut shifts from suspicion to something heavier. Betrayal is a word too clean for what I feel creeping up my spine.

I’ve been watching her. Protecting her. Stepping into this desk job I never wanted just to keep her safe. And all the while, she’s been feeding them the bullets they’ll use to shoot us down.

I sit back slowly, let the monitor glow in my face. I replay the footage. Once. Twice. Her hands are shaking. She looks scared. Not defiant. Not smug. But scared doesn’t make her innocent. Scared means she knew what she was doing.

I drag both hands down my face and exhale through my teeth. The truth sits in my lap like a loaded weapon. And now I have to decide what the fuck to do with it.

Evie wouldn’t betray her father. She worships the ground he walks on. She defends him like it's a religion. I’ve seen the way she looks at him when he walks into a room—like nothing could touch him, like he’s invincible.

So what the fuck is this?

I stare at the screen, replaying the footage again. She’s scared. That’s what rattles me most. She’s not reckless. She’s not stupid. But she’s in deep with something, and it’s crawling under my skin because I don’t know why. I don’t know what she’s doing or who made her do it. And I should.

I should’ve seen this coming.

My chest tightens again, breath hitching without permission. For a second, it’s not Evie on the screen—it’s Maelyn. Same fear in her eyes. Same way her hands shook before she walked through that fucking door in Kandahar and never came back out. I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve been faster, louder, anything but what I was.

And now here I am again, sitting behind another desk, watching another woman I should be protecting stand one breath away from getting herself killed.

I shove back from the chair. The floor groans under my boots as I stand. My skin’s too tight, heart racing like it wants out of my chest. This isn’t a leak anymore. It’s a ticking bomb.

And Evie’s right in the blast radius.

I don’t know what she’s done. But I do know this—I can’t lose another one. Not like that. Not again.

I shoot to my feet before I even realize I’ve moved.

My legs feel numb, my chest too tight. I don’t think—I just grab my phone and bring up Jasper’s contact.

Lochlan 3:13 PM: Where’s Evie? Call me now.

The second it sends, I open a thread to Draco.

Lochlan 3:14 PM: Evie’s in danger. I’m coming to the house. Something’s very wrong.

I don’t wait for replies. I shove the phone in my pocket and get out. Down the hallway, through the stairwell, boots slamming on concrete like they’re trying to make the building feel it. I don’t bother with the lift. I need the burn in my legs to match the fire tearing through my chest.

She’s in trouble. I don’t know how deep or who else is involved, but she didn’t come to me—and that says more than I can stand to think about.

She should’ve told me.

I hit the street, air sharp in my throat, and cross to the car without slowing. The second the engine turns over, I peel out fast, tires screeching as I take the corner too hard.

I keep seeing her. That moment frozen on screen—Evie standing with Doyle’s man like she’s already bracing for something she can’t avoid. Not angry. Not defiant. Just scared.

And she did it alone.

I told myself I was protecting her, keeping distance so she’d be safe. But she was already under. Already drowning. And I didn’t see it.

Just like Maelyn.

That same crawl in my gut is back—like something vital is slipping just out of reach and I’m too fucking slow to stop it. I should’ve been there. I should’ve known.

Whatever she’s stepped into, it’s killing her from the inside out. And if Connelly is involved, this doesn’t end with a threat. It ends with blood.

She’s not a soldier. She’s not built for this kind of war.

But I am.

And if I have to burn down every piece of what’s left between me and her to get her out, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.