"Take fifteen," Lorcan mutters.
The doors grind shut behind them, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet. The morning light is cutting through the high windows now, turning the dust motes in the air into glittering gold specks. It’s a beautiful morning, which feels like a personal insult considering the amount of blood currently drying on my shoes.
I turn back to Lorcan. He’s staring down at me, his grey eyes dark, heavy, and completely exhausted. He reaches up, his rough, calloused thumb gently tracing the edge of my swollen eye. I flinch slightly, but I don’t pull away.
"You’re a mess," he whispers.
"Look who’s talking," I snap, though my voice has zero bite. I reach up and touch his cheek, my fingers coming away smeared with a mix of dust and Silas’s blood. "You have plaster in your hair. And you smell like a firing range."
"I had to get to you," he says simply.
He said it.
He signed away everything, and then he said he loved me.
My stomach does a slow, complicated flip that has absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline. I look at his broad shoulders, his dark, ink-covered skin, and the stubborn set of his jaw. He’s a monster. He’s a crime lord who locks people in wings and smashes burner phones. But he’s my monster.
"You're a massive pain in my ass, Lorcan O’Shea," I say, my chin tilting up.
"I'm aware," he says, a faint, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"And I love you," I say, the words coming out fierce, almost angry. I glare at him, my hands fisting in the front of his shirt. "Even though you’re a grumpy, overbearing caveman who doesn't understand the concept of personal space or basic boundaries. I love you, and if you ever do something that stupid again, I will personally audit you into bankruptcy."
Lorcan reaches out, his large hands framing my face, and pulls me in.
The kiss is deep, heavy, and completely unhurried. It tastes like copper, salt, and the cold draft of the warehouse, but it carries the weight of every argument we’ve had, every silent standoff in the sunroom, and every night we spent pretending we weren't counting the seconds until the other walked into the room. It’s a promise, written in skin and breath, and I let myself sink into it, my hands sliding up his neck, my fingers tangling in the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is heavy, his forehead resting against mine. He lets out a slow, rough sigh.
"Atara," he says, his voice quiet, flat, and full of a specific, heavy dignity. "I have to tell you something."
Here it is.
"I'm listening," I say, stepping back just enough to look him in the eye.
"I'm a poor man now," he says, his eyes holding mine, completely unrepentant. "The transfer. I executed it. Every offshore account, every shell company, every holding in Vegas, it’s all gone. Silas’s routing numbers were verified. I had to do it to get him to drop the gun."
He says it like he’s describing a weather report, not the complete and total destruction of the empire he spent twenty years building out of blood and dirt. He’s standing there, bare-chested and covered in grime, ready to face the world as a beggar just because he wanted me to keep breathing.
I stare at him. My brain, usually a hyperactive calculator, completely stalls for three seconds.
"You... you actually did it?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, his jaw setting. "I’d do it again. I don't care about the castle, Atara. I’d rather live in a walkable studio in Brooklyn with you than be a king in a golden cage without you."
I look at his serious, grumpy face. I look at the absolute sincerity in his eyes.
And then, I start to laugh.
It starts as a small, hysterical bubble in my chest, and then it erupts. I’m laughing so hard my ribs scream in protest, my shoulders shaking as I cover my mouth with my hands.
Lorcan’s brow furrows, his expression shifting from solemn dignity to complete, irritated confusion. "Atara? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"You..." I gasp, trying to catch my breath, my swollen eye throbbing with the movement. "You really... You did the transfer."
"Yes," he growls, his hands falling to his sides. "It’s not funny. We have nothing. I have to figure out how to protect Maeve, how to get us out of the state—"
"Lorcan, stop," I giggle, wiping a tear from my good eye. I reach out and grab his hand, my fingers tracing his knuckles. "You're a genius at shooting people, but you are a terrible, terrible accountant."
