He lets go of my wrists and steps away. "Get some sleep. We land in six hours."
He walks back to his seat and closes his eyes, shutting me out.
I sit there, shaking, staring at the shattered glass on the floor. The panic is gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness.
I look out the window at the dark Atlantic. I’m terrified, yes, but I’m not stupid. Fighting him physically on this plane is a losing game. Trying to escape into a strange city while an anonymous assassin is hunting him is suicide. If I want to get through this, I have to stop reacting and start observing. This isn't a permanent surrender. It’s a tactical pause. I will go to Vegas. I will stay behind his walls, under his heavy security, because right now, that is the safest place to be. I’ll keep my head down, keep Maeve safe, and let him deal with his ghost. But the very second this war is over, and the dust settles, I am walking out the door. I will catch the first flight back to New York, get my life back on track, and pretend this entire twisted nightmare never happened.
8
Lorcan
The heat of Las Vegas hits hard when the cabin door opens. It’s dry, relentless, and smells faintly of jet fuel and dust. I prefer it to the Irish mist. Here, the sun burns away the bullshit.
I step onto the tarmac, my eyes scanning the perimeter by habit before my feet even hit the ground. Four black Suburbans are idling fifty yards away, my men standing like statues in the shimmering heat. This is my soil. My kingdom. And right now, it feels like it’s under siege.
I look back at the plane. Kieran is carrying a sleeping Maeve down the stairs, her rabbit tucked under one arm. Behind them, Atara emerges. She looks exhausted in that cream knit dress—pale, quiet, and radiating a cold, white-hot fury. She hasn'tspoken a single word to me since I crushed her phone over the Atlantic.
"Welcome home, boss," Echo says, stepping forward as we reach the cars. He looks at Atara, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "The compound is secured. Red protocols in place."
"Good," I grunt. I open the door to the second SUV and look at her. "Atara. Get in."
I expect her to fight. I expect the screaming match she gave me in Ireland. But she surprises me. She stands on the baking asphalt, her chin tilted up high, her eyes scanning the four idling Suburbans and the armed guards surrounding the perimeter. I watch her eyes track the weapons, reading the layout of the security detail in seconds. She isn't stupid. She knows she has no phone, no cash, and nowhere to run in a desert tarmac.
She gives me a look of pure, unadulterated ice—a look that tells me she’s processing exactly how trapped she is—and then she steps past me, climbing into the leather seat without a single word.
No screaming. No hysterical scene. Just a cold, calculating surrender that puts me on edge more than a temper tantrum would have.
I slide in after her, slamming the door. The driver pulls away immediately. She sits on the far side of the vehicle, staring out the tinted glass, completely shutting me out.
The compound is a fortress of glass, steel, and stone tucked into the foothills of the Spring Mountains. To the casual observer, it looks like the home of a tech billionaire with a penchant for privacy. To me, it’s a safe fortress.
The gates hum open and shut behind us. I lead her through the main foyer—all soaring ceilings and white marble—toward the East Wing. This part of the house is secluded, with its own garden and a view of the mountains.
I open the doors to the suite. It’s huge, decorated in soft grays and blues, with a queen-sized bed.
"This is yours," I say, stepping inside. "There’s a closet full of clothes. My staff will bring you whatever you need. You don't leave this wing without an escort. Is that clear?"
Atara stands in the middle of the room, looking at the luxury like it’s a beautifully dressed crime scene. She turns to face me, her posture perfectly rigid.
"A secure wing?” she scoffs. "Let's call it what it actually is, Lorcan. It's a high-end cage."
"It's a fortress," I growl, moving into her space. I'm tired, I'm dirty, and the weight of the leak is pressing down on my neck. "And right now, it's the only thing keeping you breathing. Work with me, Atara. Stop looking at me like I'm the executioner when I'm the one holding the shield."
"I know exactly what you are," she whispers, refusing to back down even as I loom over her. "And I'm not going to try to scale your walls or run into the desert. I'm smart enough to know that you are my best chance of surviving whatever psycho is hunting you. But do not confuse my compliance for submission."
She steps closer, her gray eyes boring into mine with a terrifying amount of resolve.
"I am staying here until the threat is gone. I will keep my head down, and I will help keep Maeve safe. But the absolute second you clear your ledger and things go back to normal, I am taking a commercial flight back to New York. I am getting my life back. And I am going to forget you ever existed."
I stare down at her, a dark, dangerous spark igniting in my chest.
"You think it's that simple?" I lean down, my mouth inches from her ear. "You think you can just dip your toes into my world, walk through a war, and just step back onto the pavement like nothing happened?"
"I know I can," she breathes, her chest heaving, her pulse fluttering wildly against the collar of her dress.
I reach out, my thumb catching her chin, forcing her to look up at me. "You're in my world now, Atara. And nobody leaves my world cleanly. Don't promise yourself an exit before you've even survived the night."
She gasps softly, her eyes blowing wide as the proximity hits us both like a physical blow. The anger between us mutters into something heavy, thick, and laced with a dark desire we can’t entirely smother. She looks at my mouth, her lips parting, a quiet shock of electricity passing between us.
