They exit without a word, the heavy oak door clicking shut.
"You had no right," I say, my voice echoing off the walls. I walk toward her, my boots pounding on the floor. "You could have destabilized the entire negotiation. You walked into a room you weren't invited into, and you risked everything."
"It worked, didn't it?" she says, standing her ground. Her chin is tilted up, defiant. "You were stuck. You were going to lose the deal, and you were going to go to war. I saved your position."
I’m standing inches from her now. The smell of her—clean, faint vanilla is overwhelming. My blood is boiling. I want to shake her. I want to kiss her until she can’t breathe. I want to lock her in a room where she’ll never be tempted to walk into a negotiation again.
I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the back of her neck. My grip isn't hard—I’m careful, I’m always careful with her—but it’s absolute. I pull her closer until her forehead is resting against my chest.
"If you ever, ever walk into a room like that again without my word, there will be consequences," I murmur, my voice a low, terrifying rasp against her ear. "Consequences you won't enjoy."
She doesn't pull away. Instead, she slowly tilts her head back, looking at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are bright, reckless.
"Promise?" she whispers.
My fingers tighten on her skin, just for a second. The air in the room feels like it’s being sucked out. Her gaze is a challenge,a direct, searing question. I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach.
I release her and step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m staring at her, feeling a complicated mess of anger, relief, and a terrifying, bone-deep obsession. She’s looking at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. She’s not afraid. She’s testing the boundaries of the cage I’ve built, and she’s finding out just how much power she has over the man holding the key.
"Get out," I say again, my voice barely audible.
She turns and walks toward the door, her walk steady and confident. She stops at the threshold and looks back at me.
"They were very impressed," she says.
She leaves, and I’m left standing in the silent room.
I sink into my chair, my hands resting on the desk. I’m in trouble. I am thoroughly, completely, and utterly in trouble. I want her so badly it feels like a physical weight, like the air in the room is too heavy to breathe.
I pick up the pen I used to sign the deal and stare at the paper. I’m thinking about the way she looked at me, the way her hair smelled, the way my hand felt against her neck. I’m thinking about how I’m never going to be able to let her go.
I think about the gala. I think about her in a dress, the way her shoulders would look, the way I’d have to keep everyone away from her. The thought sends a surge of possessive heat through me that’s so intense it makes me dizzy.
This isn't about the docks anymore. It isn't about the Bratva. It’s about the fact that I’ve spent my entire life building a wall, and she’s just walked through the front door and sat down at the table.
And for the first time, I don't know how to throw her out.
19
Atara
Three days. Seventy-two hours of living with a ghost.
Lorcan hasn't looked at me once since the Bratva meeting. Not really. He gives me these nods when we cross paths in the hallway—quick, efficient, entirely professional. It’s the kind of politeness that makes me want to scream. It’s like he decided he let his guard down too much, and now he’s gone back to being the untouchable mafia lord who lives in his own head.
I tell myself I’m happy about it. Really. My heart rate is steady for the first time in weeks. I’m sleeping through the night without waking up in a sweat, thinking about the heavy weight of his body or the way his hand feels on my neck. I’m not constantly waiting for the sound of his boots to rattle the floorboards.
"You’re doing that thing again," Maeve says from across the rug.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same blue puzzle piece for the last ten minutes. "What thing?"
"The thing where your face gets all scrunchy, like you’re eating a lemon."
I drop the piece. "I’m just thinking, Maeve. Thinking is hard work."
"Thinking about Daddy?"
I feel my cheeks get hot. "No. Why would you think that?"
