The room is dim, the main screens glowing with the schematics of the ballroom. But it’s not empty.
Atara is standing at the center table. She’s pulled the layout of the ballroom from the main display and is actively rearranging the security team's positions. She has a stylus in her hand, dragging icons across the screen, pulling the blue squares representing my men into completely different spots.
I stop dead in the doorway. My hand tightens on the doorframe.
"What are you doing?" I ask. My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room.
Atara doesn't jump or gasp in shock like I expected, she doesn't even look up immediately. She drags one last icon into place, taps it, and then turns to face me. She’s wearing a fitted charcoal sweater that emphasizes her frame, and she looks like she hasn't slept either.
"The layout is garbage," she says, perfectly calm.
I walk over to the table, my eyes scanning the screen. She’s moved the perimeter guards. She’s shifted the mobile units. She’s completely undone the work Kieran and I spent three hours finalizing.
"The layout was calculated for maximum coverage," I say, my voice dropping, low and dangerous. "I put those men there for a reason. Do not touch the displays."
"The coverage is fine if you're guarding a bank," she says, ignoring my tone. "But this is a trap. You’re baiting Silas. If you leave the eastern flank here, you’re basically inviting him to run right through your center. You’re grouping the mobile units in a way that creates a bottleneck. If he breaches from the terrace, your team is trapped between the buffet and the wall. It’s basic geometry, Lorcan."
"It’s not basic geometry," I snap. "It’s tactical positioning. You’re not a field commander. You don't know how these men move."
"I know how to read a layout," she fires back, her jaw tight. "I’m the reason you still have assets to protect. If I hadn't audited your books, your northern hubs would have been dismantled by now. I know where the money goes, and I know where the bodies are buried. I know how to track movement. You’re overestimating the defensive perimeter and underestimating how fast he’s going to move."
I walk around the table, closing the distance until I’m standing right in front of her. She’s defiant, her head tilted up, her hands gripped on the edge of the table.
"You are not in charge of security," I say, my voice a low, raspy snarl. "You are not a soldier. You are not a strategist. You are a civilian who is currently in way over her head. Step away from the console."
"I’m the reason you’re still standing," she says, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated anger. "I’m the reason you’re not sitting in a pile of rubble. You can be the Don, and you can be the king, and you can be the tough guy, but you’re making a mistake."
I reach out and grab her by the jaw. My grip is firm, tilting her face up so I can look straight into her eyes. Her skin is hot, her pulse fluttering against my thumb.
"Stand down," I say.
She holds my gaze. She doesn't look away. She doesn't blink. "Make me."
The audacity of her. The absolute, stupid bravery of her.
Fuck! I don’t know what to do with her. I want to tell her off badly, and also kiss her at the same time.
My hand tightens on her chin, not hurting her, but forcing her to feel the weight of my command. I can see the frustration in her eyes, the way she’s fighting the urge to tear her face away, but she stays put.
"You have a mouth that is going to get you into a lot of trouble," I growl.
"Wanna do something about it," she whispers.
I move.
I grab her by the waist and spin her around, slamming her down onto the table. The tablet slides across the surface, hitting the floor with a clatter. She gasps, her hands flying out to catch herself, and I press my weight against her back, pinning her flat against the cool, dark wood.
I can feel the heat of her through her clothes. My dick is already throbbing, straining hard against my trousers. The way her body is pressed against mine is making my head spin.
I'm done playing all these games. I’m tired, I’m stressed, and I want her. I want to own this defiant, mouthy little auditor until she can’t think of anything but my name.
"You think you’re so smart," I growl into her ear, my hands sliding down to grip the waist of her jeans. I pull them down with one savage motion, exposing the silk of her panties. "You think you can just reorganize my men and question my orders?"
"I think the flank is exposed," she gasps, her head tilted slightly, her voice coming out in ragged hitches as I drag my hands up her thighs, tracing the soft, flushed skin.
"The flank is fine," I mutter, moving my hand to the front, finding her center. She’s already wet, the heat of her slicking my fingers. "It’s your mouth that’s the problem."
She groans, her forehead pressed against the wood of the table, but she moves backward ever so slightly, pressing her soft, round butt against me. "Lorcan..."
