He stays there, lodged deep, both of us panting, soaked, trembling. The aftermath is a humid, sticky silence. His hand relaxes in my hair, his fingers now stroking the damp strands. He’s still inside me, softening slowly, a heavy, possessive reminder.
“You are far more delicious than I expected,” he whispers into the quiet, his lips brushing my ear.
After we clean up, the silence in the room is heavy as we lay tangled together under the heavy duvet. My head is on his chest, my ear pressed against the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. I can feel the tattoos on his arm against my shoulder, a strange, textured map of a life I don't understand.
I lie there, trying to piece together the specific insanity of the last forty-eight hours. Two days ago, I was a graduate with a boring boyfriend and a plan. Now, I’m in a penthouse in Ireland, naked in the bed of a man who looks like he could kill me with his bare hands and who just spent three hours making me forget my own name.
“You’re thinking too much,” Lorcan mutters, his hand stroking my hair.
“I’m a Finance major,” I whisper. “Thinking is what I do. I’m trying to calculate the ROI of this entire situation.”
“And?”
“The risk is astronomical,” I say, a small smile playing on my lips. “But the dividends are… significant.”
He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through my cheek. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Go to sleep, Atara. The world will still be there in the morning.”
I close my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I feel… safe. Which is hilarious, considering who I’m lying next to. I’m drifting off, the sound of the Atlantic wind outside a distant hum, when it happens.
CRACK.
The sound of shattering glass is deafening.
I bolt upright, my heart leaping into my throat. Before I can even process the sound, a heavy, solid weight slams into me, throwing me off the bed and onto the floor.
It’s Lorcan.
He’s over me in a second, his body a shield, pinning me against the mahogany base of the bed.
“Stay down!” he snarls.
The room is suddenly filled with the staccato rhythm of gunfire.Pop-pop-pop-pop.Bits of plaster and wood fly through the air. The heavy curtains are shredded, and the moonlight spills into the room through the jagged holes in the window.
I’m paralyzed. My brain, usually so quick with numbers and logic, has completely flatlined. All I can hear is the roar of the ocean and the mechanical rhythm of the shots.
Lorcan is moving. He’s not the man who was just whispering to me. He’s not the man who was making me cum.
He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a sleek, black handgun. My breath hitches, and I almost think I’d die if I don’t let a breath out as he checks the clip with a flick of his wrist, his eyes cold and focused. He doesn't look scared. He looks… ready.
“Kieran! Echo!” he bellows toward the door.
The door bursts open, and his two men are there, weapons drawn. They don't look surprised either. They move with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency, taking positions by the windows.
“A rival gang?” Kieran shouts over the noise.
“Maybe,” Lorcan says, his voice flat. He looks down at me for a split second. The heat in his eyes is gone, replaced by a cold, hard determination that makes my blood turn to ice. “Atara, listen to me. Stay behind the bed. Do not move until I tell you to. Do you understand?”
I can’t find my voice. I just nod, my hands shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my armpits.
Another burst of gunfire shatters a lamp across the room. Lorcan stands up, staying low, and moves toward the door. He’s a shadow among shadows, a ghost with a gun.
Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. This isn't a 'business' rivalry. This is a war.
And I’m stuck right in the middle of it.
6
Lorcan
