I look at her for a long, heavy beat. I look at her stubborn mouth, her sharp jaw, the way her fingers are gripping the leather of the seat.
"Not yet," I say.
I sit back, crossing my arms, and turn my face toward the side window. The car ride home is completely silent, the desert sun burning through the spiderweb cracks in the reinforced glass.
My mind is running two tracks simultaneously. The first is cold, hard logic: someone gave Silas the route. Someone knew the timing. The leak is close.
The second track is pure, torturous yearning. I can still feel the weight of her body beneath mine on the floorboards. I can still feel the way her chest pressed against my ribs.
This isn’t the right time.
13
Atara
My blood is still singing with the violent, high-octane hum of the canyon pass. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the deafening crack of the shotgun, feel the hard press of the Suburban's floorboards against my ribs, and feel the terrifying, intoxicating weight of Lorcan’s body shielding mine.
Not yet.
The words are a hot brand sliding down my spine. He doesn’t own me. He doesn't. But my body is currently a traitorous, weeping mess that is actively disputing that claim. Between my thighs, my panties are completely ruined—soaked through with a heavy, thick slickness that clings to my skin with every step I take. My nipples are so hard they are practically scraping againstthe inside of my sundress, tingling with an agonizing need for his hands, his mouth, the rough slide of his teeth. When we were on that floorboard, I wanted him to rip my dress to shreds. I wanted him to sink his teeth into my shoulder and drive himself into me right there in the dirt and spent shell casings.
I’m furious at myself. I’m a Finance major. I deal in logical equations, risk assessments, and cold, hard data. And the data currently says that I am dangerously, humiliatingly obsessed with a man who carries a shotgun in his center console.
I don't go to the East Wing to wash the canyon dust from my skin. Instead, I march straight to the West Wing. The new guard at the double doors looks like he wants to stop me, but the sheer, vibrating anger radiating off me makes him hesitate just long enough for me to push past him.
I throw Lorcan's office door open so hard it slams against the wall.
Lorcan is standing by the window, his back to me. He’s already stripped off his dust-covered shirt, standing bare-chested in the bright desert light. His skin is a map of dark ink and heavy muscle, his shoulders rising and falling with his deep, heavy breaths.
He doesn't flinch at the sound of the door. He slowly turns around, his eyes fixing on me with that dark, grumpy, intense look he always has on his face.
"I told you to go to your wing, Atara," he growls, his voice sounding like gravel.
"I don't care what you told me," I snap, marching across the room until only his massive mahogany desk stands between us. I slam my hands onto the wood, leaning forward. My breasts swell against the neckline of my sundress, and I see his eyes immediately drop to the hard, visible peaks of my nipples through the fabric. His jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek.
"There’s a mole in your fortress," I say, my voice sharp and clear. "And I know exactly who it is."
Lorcan freezes. The air in the room instantly loses ten degrees. His eyes snap back to mine, the coldness returning. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," I say, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. This is my play. My leverage. My ticket back to Brooklyn. "I know who gave Silas your itinerary for Ireland. I know who gave him the route for the North Pass today. The commotion Sean and I made this morning created a two-minute window. Your security desk was empty, and she took the routing slip."
Lorcan’s chest heaves. He takes a slow, predatory step toward the desk. "Who, Atara? Give me the name."
"No," I say, tilting my chin up. "I’m not giving you anything. Not until we discuss the terms of my release. You want this name? You want to stop the leak that’s actively trying to get youand your daughter killed? Fine. You fly me back to New York tonight. You buy me a new phone. You give me my life back, and you never, ever contact me again. That is the price of the transaction."
Lorcan stares at me. A low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. He walks slowly around the desk, closing the distance between us until he is towering over me. The smell of him—dust, gunpowder, and that intoxicating sandalwood—fills my nose, making my mouth water.
"You think you’re a player now, Atara?" he whispers, leaning down. "You think you can walk into my office and threaten me with my own security? You're brilliant, yes. I knew that the second I read your file. But you don't understand the rules of this table."
"I understand numbers," I snap, though my breath is hitching because he is so close. My core throbbed, a heavy, wet pulse. "And the numbers say you need this information more than you need me sitting in your East Wing doing puzzles. I am a depreciating asset to you, Lorcan. Let me go, and I'll give you the leak."
"I don't negotiate with my captives," he growls. He reaches out, his rough, calloused fingers wrapping around my waist, pulling me a fraction of an inch closer. The heat of his bare chest is like a furnace. "But I’m in a good mood so I’ll make you a bet."
"A bet?" I repeat, my voice trembling.
"Ten minutes," Lorcan says, his smoke-and-ice eyes darkening with a vicious, hungry intent. "We stay in this room for ten minutes. I touch you. I kiss you. I do whatever I want to that beautiful, stubborn body. If you can last those ten minutes without begging me to fuck you, without begging me to make you cum... I will let you go. I will personally put you on my jet tonight, fly you to New York, and never look back."
I stare at him, my brain trying to run the probability of survival. Ten minutes. It’s just ten minutes. I survived five years of Mark’s touch. I can handle ten minutes of Lorcan. I’m strong. I’m stubborn. I have a 3.9 GPA. I can control my own body.
