"You’re doing this all wrong."
He drops the knife onto the table and spins me around, his hands gripping my hips, staring at me, his eyes dark, his breathing heavy.
"You’re focusing on the mechanics," he says, his hands sliding up to my waist. "You need to focus on the intent."
He pulls me in, his body flush against mine. The friction of his trousers against my skirt is immediate, a hard, heavy promise. He tilts my head back, his eyes burning into mine.
"You want to know how to use it?" he growls. "You have to be ready to use it."
He presses his lips to my neck, biting down gently, and I let out a sharp, ragged gasp. My hands go to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt.
"Lorcan," I whisper.
"Show me," he says, his voice a growl. "Show me you can be as dangerous as I need you to be."
He kisses me, and I let him.
That night, I stand at my bedroom window, the small knife clutched in my hand.
I look at the blade. It’s a cold, sharp, metallic thing. It’s a tool for survival. A tool for killing.
I’m not the woman I was three months ago. I’m not the girl who cried over a graduation dress. I’m not the girl who cared about a 3.9 GPA or a walkable studio apartment in Brooklyn.
I’m not a hostage. I’m a player.
And for the first time in my life, I don't want to get out.
I want to win.
I slip the knife into its sheath, the leather cool against my skin. I turn away from the window, my reflection ghosting in the dark glass.
Let the Gala begin.
I’m ready.
24
Lorcan
That bastard is out there.
I try to focus on the gala that’s happening forty-eight hours from now, but all I can think of is that Silas is out there somewhere, likely watching, waiting to see which one of us strikes first.
And I’d fucking like to strike the fucker dead, but I have to think about my women, my daughter, and Atara. I can’t act recklessly.
I feel a strong, intense heaviness in my head. I haven't slept more than three hours a night in a week. My coffee is cold, my head is pounding, and my patience is non-existent.
I walk through the main corridor, checking the perimeter logs on my tablet. The new sensors are in place, the exterior gates are reinforced, and my men are doubled up on every shift. We’re locked down tight. It’s a fortress. It has to be.
I stop at the security station, tapping the glass. "Kieran, report."
"Perimeter is green, Boss. Nothing within five miles. No traffic, no drones, no signals. The local police are running standard patrols, and my boys are tracking them on the grid. We’re clear."
"Keep the grid tight," I say. "If a stray cat crosses the perimeter, I want to know about it."
I walk past the foyer, my boots echoing on the marble, and head for the War Room. I need to run the tactical simulations one more time. I need to be sure. I have to see where Silas could potentially force an entry, where the weak points are, and how many men we can realistically afford to lose if this goes south.
I hit the code for the War Room door. It slides open with a heavy hiss.
