"You can’t do this to me… t-this makes no sense," she whispers.
“I have no answer for you Atara, not right now, not if you want to keep breathing.”
I look down at Maeve. She’s asleep, her head tilted to the side, the pink headphones still firmly in place. She’s dreaming of treasure hunts and Dora. She has no idea that her world almost ended.
I sit back and close my eyes. I’m relieved she’s fighting me. The fire in her eyes is better than the hollow shock. I can handle her anger. I can handle her hate.
What I can't handle is the memory of how she looked before the window shattered. The way she trusted me. The way she looked like she might actually like the monster.
I’ve lost that now. And I’ve gained a war I thought I’d already won.
"Kieran," I say without opening my eyes.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Get the plane ready. We’re leaving in twenty minutes. No stops. No delays."
"Copy that."
The SUV speeds into the night, the Irish coast disappearing behind us. I’m taking her to my golden cage. I’m taking the sunshine into the dark.
And as the silence settles over the car, I realize Silas was right about one thing.
I don't do casual. And God help me, I don't think I’m ever letting her go.
7
Atara
The hum of the SUV’s engine is the only thing keeping me from screaming at the top of my lungs. Or maybe I am screaming. My throat feels raw, and the words are just tumbling out of me like a broken vending machine that only dispenses panic.
But while my mouth runs, I’m observing. Two armed men in front. One lethal man beside me. Doors that lock from a console I can't reach. I talk because talking fills the terrifying silence, buying me time to process a situation that is rapidly spinning out of my control.
"I have a lease in Brooklyn, Lorcan! A lease! Do you know how hard it is to get a decent studio in a walkable neighborhood with a co-signer? I have a job track I’ve worked four years for. I havea plant that will literally die if he isn't watered by Tuesday. You cannot just cargo me to another continent because some old enemy named Silas decided to play sniper!"
Lorcan is a statue. He’s sitting in the back seat with me, his arms crossed over a chest that I was kissing less than an hour ago. The memory makes me want to vomit. Or punch him. Probably both. He hasn't looked at me since we left the resort. He just stares out the tinted window at the dark Irish countryside blurring past, his profile looking like it was hacked out of granite.
"Sir," Kieran says from the front seat, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Three minutes to the airfield."
"Good," Lorcan grunts.
"It is not good!" I snap, leaning into Lorcan’s space. "Do you hear me? I am a person. I am a citizen with rights. You are kidnapping me. That’s a felony. Multiple felonies! We’re talking federal prison, orange jumpsuits, the whole deal."
Lorcan finally turns his head. His eyes are like smoke—heavy, gray, and completely unreadable. "Atara. Shut up."
"Oh, 'Shut up.' Great. Fantastic. The 'psychopath’s Guide to Crisis Management.' Chapter One: Tell the girl to shut up." I fall back against the leather seat, my hands shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my thighs.
I’ve spent my entire life being the sensible one. The girl with the plan, the predictable future. And the literal second my life blewup back home because of Mark, I did the one thing I’ve never done: I let go of the steering wheel. I came to Ireland on a whim, looking for a clean break, a tiny taste of a reckless adventure. Just one. And it is just my absolute luck that the one time I decided to stop being cautious, I walked straight into a war zone.
"Mark is a coward who used you," Lorcan says, his voice flat and final. "And this isn't a dream. It’s a transition. Your old life ended when that window shattered. Fucking accept it."
Fucking accept it?! This bastard!
And what? Used you? He says it like he's reading it off a chart. And that's the part that lands wrong, because that's exactly how Mark treated me—a convenient tool, someone to do the heavy lifting until he didn't need me anymore. Two men in one week have looked at me and decided they get to control my trajectory. I spent years playing an entry-level role in my own life. I will not sit quietly while I get reclassified as this man’s collateral damage.
The SUV swerves onto a private tarmac. A sleek, black Gulfstream jet is idling there, its engines whining like a banshee. It doesn’t have a logo. It doesn’t have a tail number I can see. It just looks… expensive. And dangerous.
The car stops. Kieran and Echo are out in a second, their eyes scanning the perimeter like they expect an ambush. Lorcan opens my door and steps out, then reaches back for Maeve. She’s still wearing those pink headphones, clutching her rabbit, her eyes sleepy and trusting.
