"Antique restoration," Eamon explains, but his mouth curves in a way that says he knows I'm not buying it.
Through gaps in the wood, I spot rifle components. Weapons shipment disguised as furniture. My training screams to document everything, but Eamon's presence beside me is distracting as hell.
"Impressive operation," I manage.
"My family doesn't fuck around."
A worker approaches, whispering urgently in Irish Gaelic. Eamon's entire demeanor shifts—from casual tour guide to lethal enforcer in seconds. The transformation is terrifying and ridiculously attractive.
"Problem?" I ask.
"Stay close to me." His hand finds my lower back, guiding me toward cover. "We've got company."
Three men enter through the loading dock. Not employees—everything about them screams threat. Dark jackets, tactical movement, hands near concealed weapons.
Eamon pulls me behind a stack of pallets, his body pressing against mine in the narrow space. Heat radiates off him, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous.
"Moran's boys," he whispers against my ear, breath hot on my neck.
I shiver despite myself. "What do they want?"
"Me. Dead, preferably."
His casual tone about death threats shouldn't be arousing. Yet here I am, trapped against his chest, fighting the urge to turn in his arms.
The searchers spread out, voices echoing off concrete. They're hunting Eamon specifically, which means I'm collateral damage if we're caught.
One approaches our hiding spot. Eamon tenses, hand inside his jacket. I count footsteps, calculating distance and angles like academy training taught me.
"This way," I whisper, pointing toward a gap between containers.
He follows without question, trusting my judgment. The confidence he shows in my abilities sends another jolt of unwanted attraction through me.
We slip between containers when gunshots explode behind us. No more hiding—this is open warfare.
"Get behind me," Eamon orders, drawing his weapon.
"Like hell."
I pull out my tactical pen. Not ideal, but I'm trained for close combat. The first attacker rounds the corner at full speed.
Eamon drops him with two precise shots. Professional, efficient, deadly. Watching him work should terrify me. Instead, I'm fighting arousal at his competence.
The second man flanks from our left. I intercept before he can fire, driving my pen into his throat. He crumples, choking.
"Fucking hell," Eamon breathes. "Where did you learn that?"
"Self-defense classes."
The third attacker gains high ground on the containers. Bullets spark off metal as we dive for cover, Eamon's body covering mine.
His weight presses me against concrete, solid muscle and controlled strength. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, steady despite the chaos.
"Suppressing fire," I gasp.
He nods, laying down covering shots while I grab a piece of rebar. The sniper adjusts position to track Eamon. Perfect opportunity.
My throw catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. His rifle clatters down. Eamon finishes him with one shot.
