Rosalie chuckles. “That was my first thought, too. So, Justice is there?”
“Yes. Rosy? Have you heard from Alana?” I change the subject.
“Not really. She’s on her honeymoon. I doubt she has time to talk.”
Very good point. “That tracks.” I lower my voice into a teasing drawl. “Speaking of honeymoons, are you still planning to marry that Russian mobster?”
“I told you to stop calling him that—especially on the phone. I am an officer of the court,” she snaps, but there’s no heat behind it.
True. She is a lawyer. “Right. Sorry.” I’m not sorry, but I let the apology stand. I glance at Justice. His jaw’s set, but his lips twitch like he’s holding back a grin. He doesn’t give me much, but that almost-smile … it does something.
It’s too bad he’s so good in bed. That confuses me.
I want to talk to Rosalie. Really talk. About what happened in the forest, or the server room, about the mess in my chest every time Justice looks at me, about the urge to run, and the thrill of maybe not running. But with him sitting right here, heat radiating off him like a storm contained in a human body? No. Not yet.
“Ella.” Rosalie’s voice sharpens again. “No more safe houses.”
“We’ll see. I have to get back to work but will be in touch soon. Say hi to your gangster for me.” I end the call before she can push, thumb pressing hard against the button. The screen goes black, and I hold the dead weight of the phone in my lap.
Outside, the land stretches wide, and the sky is pale and endless. Every turn in the road is another possibility. I start mapping exits, routes, and places to vanish. Freedom isn’t just about survival. It’s the challenge, and if I can beat Justice Beathach at his own game? That’s worth every risk.
I glance at him. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer. Typical.
Outside, Silicon Valley fades behind us. The glass and steel towers give way to low commercial blocks, then thinner neighborhoods, until the road narrows and thetrees take over. My butt feels heated and my clit tender. I’m kind of in a continuously aroused state.
Butthead.
Pines line the ridges, tall and dark, throwing shadows across the asphalt. The air sharpens, cooler, tasting faintly of salt. Mountains rise in the distance, green and gray with the hint of early mist, and the road curls upward through them before dropping toward the ocean. The water appears like a bruise on the horizon, slate colored and rolling, its whitecaps flashing as we descend.
We reach a long, private driveway cut between thick stands of fir. Justice turns in without a word, gravel crunching beneath the tires. At the end of the drive stands a three-story wooden structure. It’s too massive to be called a cabin, but it has the bones of one with logs stacked and fitted with precision, wide eaves, and glass windows catching the gray sky.
Another freaking safe house? It’s bigger than the cabin we hit last night. This is a massive home. “Hey,” I say, leaning forward. “We’re by Thorn’s place.”
“We are.” Justice pulls to a stop, kills the engine, and opens his door. “Come on.”
“You have another house nobody knows about?” I step out onto the gravel, shoes crunching, and take it in. For years nobody knew about Justice. It’s impressive, really, in this time when every idiot has a digital footprint trailing behind them.
Leo bounds past me when I open the back door, barking joyfully before tearing into the trees.
“Is he safe here?” I ask.
“He’s not going to leave you. He’s not dumb. He’s asmart dog,” Justice says dryly, already hefting too many bags for one man.
I shift my weight. “Do you need help?”
“I’ve got them.” He shoulders the bags like they weigh nothing and heads up the steps. The wood gives a faint groan under his boots. The porch smells like cedar, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. He unlocks the door without pausing, like he’s done it a hundred times.
I glance at the tree line, that prickling instinct crawling higher. “Shouldn’t there be Irish mobsters patrolling?”
“Oh, there are.” His tone is flat. “You just can’t see them.”
That shiver? Yeah, it runs straight down my spine. Invisible guards. Perfect. I tug the hem of his T-shirt lower on my jeans and follow him in.
The place instantly charms me, as it’s not what I expect. Honey-colored logs create thick and solid walls that don’t feel new or staged. They’re scarred a little, worn smooth where hands have touched them over years, with beams across the ceiling, the kind wide enough to sit on and hide. The smell is layered. Wood smoke clings stubbornly to stone, the bite of salt air creeps through cracks, and the scent of leather softens the notes.
Windows eat up the far wall, and beyond them the Pacific heaves, gray and restless. A stone fireplace waits, logs stacked beside it. Couches sag with use, blankets tossed like afterthoughts. A low table is scratched all to hell. Books crowd shelves in the corner, spines cracked, some stacked sideways because there’s never enough room. It’s messy. It’s lived in. It hums with life. Not the sterile kind of hideout I expected. A home. Which makes no damn sense with Justice standing in the middle of it.
