I look at his back. He’s still wearing the same shirt, but the sleeves are rolled down now, hiding the tattoos. He looks likehe’s carrying a mountain. I find myself wanting to walk over and just lean my head against his shoulder. My body is still throbbing with the memory of the floor, the memory of his hands, but that’s not what I’m feeling right now. I just want him to be okay. It’s an insane thought—he’s my captor—but the empathy is there, a stubborn, irrational pull.
"Lorcan," I say, and for the first time, I don't mean to fight. "I'm not here to talk about the mole. I’m just... I’m here."
He turns around. He looks older tonight. The lines around his eyes are deeper, the shadows underneath them more pronounced. He takes a slow sip of his drink and looks at me, really looks at me.
"You’re a terrible captive," he says. His voice has a dry, almost humorous edge to it. “Are you really trying to comfort your captor?”
"I'm a very efficient captive," I counter, crossing my arms over my chest, which only makes the fabric of my dress pull tighter across my breasts. "I’m not just contorting you, I’m also organizing your book collection by publication date. You have a lot of books for a mafia lord. You should branch out into fiction."
He lets out a quiet, genuine laugh. It’s a low, raspy sound that catches me off guard.
"Fiction is for people who believe in happy endings," he says. He walks closer, stopping a few feet away. "You believe in them, don't you? Atara Ross."
"I believe that people should be allowed to have them," I say. "Even if they're grumpy, ink-covered, and occasionally kidnap people."
He steps into my space, and the heavy sadness from earlier is still there, but beneath it, the hunger starts to coil. I can feel it in the way his eyes darken, the way he looks at the pulse point in my throat. My body immediately betrays me—my nipples harden, my core clenches, and that familiar, needy ache begins to pulse between my legs. I want him to touch me. I want him to ruin me. I want to feel that rough, heavy weight on top of me again. It’s a confusing, suffocating feeling—being furious at him, scared of him, and yet wanting him so desperately that I can barely stand still.
"You're a distraction," he mutters, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low register. "And I have no idea what to do about you."
"First, stop looking at me like you’re trying to solve me," I whisper.
He looks at my mouth. His eyes are burning, filled with a yearning so raw and exposed it makes my breath catch. He reaches out, his thumb brushing against my lower lip, tracing the shape of it with a gentle, agonizingly slow motion.
My body is screaming for him. I want to lean into him; I want to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down until his mouth covers mine. I’m starved for the touch of him, for theway he makes me feel like I’m the only person in his world, even when his world is a battlefield.
He pulls his hand away.
He turns toward the desk and gestures to a stack of digital ledgers.
"I have a problem," he says, his voice returning to that cold, business-like tone. "The accounts. There’s a bleed. It’s small, but it’s consistent. It’s been happening for months. I haven't had the time to find it."
He looks at me, his eyes sharp. "You’re an auditor, right? You’re the smartest person I’ve met in five years. I’m giving you full access to the internal finances. If you find the leak, if you show me who’s been skimming from my accounts, I’ll give you a reward."
I stare at the screens. This is it. This is the data. This is my way out.
"What kind of reward?" I ask.
"Anything you want," he says. He picks up his glass, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long. "Within reason."
He walks to the door, pauses, and looks back at me. "Don't work too late. You look tired."
He leaves, and I’m standing in the middle of his study, the air still thick with his scent. I’m left standing there, absolutely aching, my body feeling like it’s been set on fire. He walked away. He left me here, in his room, smelling of him, and he didn't even touch me.
I’m confused. I’m frustrated. And God, I’m so incredibly hungry for him.
I sit down at his desk and open the first file. I have the name of the mole. Now, I’m going to find the thief. I’m going to earn my freedom. And if I have to climb over a pile of ledgers to get there?
Fine.
The game just got a lot more interesting. My heart is pounding, but it’s not from fear this time. It’s from the realization that I’m not just a prisoner. I’m a player. And I’m going to win.
16
Lorcan
The basement smells like copper and stale cigarettes.
I’m standing in the center of the concrete room, my hands shoved into the pockets of my trousers, watching Kieran finish his work with a piece of rebar. The kid, barely twenty, is crumpled in the corner, his breathing jagged and wet. He’d been selling narcotics in the North District—a direct violation of the territory ordinance I set down six months ago. Drugs bring heat, and heat kills the business.
