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I fly to the next aisle.
It’s empty, too…
No.
“Ada.”
I turn so fast, my black coat flaring. He’s standing in the aisle opposite, waiting for me, holding a finger to his lips.
He’s beautiful.
Oh God, he’s so beautiful.
All the parts that were hidden from me before are now on display.He’s taller than I thought—six feet, at least. He has a man’s shoulders, but the kind of low-slung, blue-jean waist that only a cool teenager can justify. His wavy black hair is tumbling into two brown eyes that shine like dark bruises. His leather jacket is zipped up to his chin.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
“Did you doubt it?”
Did you doubt me?
“I didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t need to.”
I don’t recall who makes the first move, but the next thing I know is I’m in his arms. He drags us down to our knees, as if the floor is our own private sanctuary.
“I’ve got you, Ada,” I hear him murmur, his body wrapped so tight around me that breathing becomes an afterthought. “I’ve got you, dove girl.”
I’m conscious of his rich cologne; of the thick web of muscles straining beneath his jacket; of the rightness of being inside this outsider’s embrace.
“Whoareyou?” I pull back to look at him, convinced he’s a literary mirage.
“A man who hates Cian O’Sullivan as much as you do.” He takes my face between his hands, and I feel a mercy in his touch that contradicts his words. “I was looking for a fucking war with the Irish, Ada, but you… you’re the one thing I never saw coming.”
My heart stutters.
Restarts.
Fires up.
“Tell me your full name?”
“Frankie… Frankie Lastra.”
Lastra
My mind spins off on a tangent, pulling at the loose threads of old conversations.
“O’Sullivan killed your family!”Like he killed mine.
He nods, his expression hardening, before he freezes.
Footsteps.
“Seamus,” I croak in terror.“He’ll kill us.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
