"Eamon!" The leader calls out. "We need to talk."
Eamon's jaw tightens, but he doesn't turn around. "Later, Connie."
"Now." Connie's voice carries threat. "About the shipment."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. I feel it in my bones—violence gathering like a storm. Other patrons sense it too, conversations dying as men position themselves.
Eamon finally turns, putting his back to me. Mistake. In my real life, I'd use the opening to assess threats, plan escape routes. But Sarah Murphy would cower behind the bar.
Instead, I find myself studying the breadth of his shoulders, the way his dark hair curls at his collar. This man is my enemy. My target. The person I'm here to destroy.
So why does my body respond to him like he's salvation instead of damnation?
"The shipment arrived intact," Eamon says, voice deadly quiet. "Your boys damaged three crates fighting over territory."
"Territory that ain't yours anymore."
The pub goes silent. Even the jukebox seems to hold its breath. I've read the files on Kavanagh territorial disputes. They end in blood and body bags.
Eamon takes a step toward Connie. Just one. But the threat radiates from him like heat from a flame.
"Wanna repeat that?" His accent thickens when angry. "Because I might have misheard you."
Connie's hand moves toward his jacket. His companions spread out, flanking positions. I count weapons, escape routes, wonder if my backup team is close enough to matter.
Then Eamon smiles.
It's the most terrifying expression I've ever seen. Not angry or wild—coldly pleased, like a predator spotting wounded prey.
"Outside," he says. "Now."
They file out like obedient dogs. Through the window, I watch Eamon speak quietly to Connie while his men surround the group. Whatever he says makes Connie's face go white.
Two minutes later, the rival crew drives away. Fast.
Eamon returns, straightening his jacket like he just stepped out for air instead of delivering death threats.
"Sorry about that," he says, resuming his position at the bar. "Business."
"Exciting business." My voice sounds breathless. Not from fear—from adrenaline. From watching him dominate through pure presence.
This is wrong. I'm a federal agent. He's a criminal. I should be disgusted by his violence, not aroused by his power.
His eyes find mine, and I see he caught my reaction. One eyebrow raises slightly.
"You don't scare easy."
"Takes more than posturing to rattle me."
"Posturing?" He leans across the bar, close enough that I feel his breath against my cheek. "That wasn't posturing, love. That was mercy."
Love. The endearment shouldn't make my stomach flutter. Shouldn't make me want to lean closer instead of backing away.
"My mistake," I whisper.
"Aye. Best not make another."
It's a warning wrapped in silk, delivered close enough to be a caress. Every instinct tells me to retreat. Instead, I hold his stare.
