"No." He stands, rolling his shoulders beneath his black henley. "You can't."
I grab my purse, hyperaware of how he moves—predatory grace, coiled tension ready to strike. Outside, he scans the street with military precision before nodding toward his BMW.
"This is insane," I say, sliding into the passenger seat. The space feels intimate, his presence overwhelming in the confined area.
"Insane is letting Moran's crew hunt you down." He starts the engine, and I catch the flash of his holstered gun beneath his jacket. "They don't forget faces."
The city blurs past as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. I force myself to look away from those hands, from the way his jeans stretch across powerful legs.
"Where did you serve?" I ask, noting the anchor tattoo disappearing beneath his sleeve.
His jaw tightens. "What makes you think I served?"
"The way you clear corners. How you carry yourself." I study the ink on his forearm. "Third Battalion Marines, right?"
He glances at me, surprise flickering in those blue eyes. "You know military."
"My father was Navy." Half truth. "Afghanistan?"
"Two tours." His voice goes flat. "Lost half my unit in an ambush. Came home and found out violence makes more sense when it has a purpose."
The raw admission hits something deep in my chest. I know about losing people, about finding purpose in dangerous work.
"I lost someone too," I say before I can stop myself. "Different circumstances, same result."
"Your father?"
"My partner. Car bomb." The truth spills out. "Still wake up thinking I should have seen it coming."
Eamon's hand moves from his thigh to the gear shift, knuckles brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm.
"Survivor guilt's a bitch," he says.
"Yes. It is."
When he parks outside my building, neither of us moves. The car fills with tension, the kind that makes breathing difficult.
"You don't have to babysit me," I say, turning to face him.
Big mistake. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. Heat flares between us, unexpected and dangerous.
"Babysit?" His voice drops an octave. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?"
He leans closer, and I catch his scent—leather, gunpowder, pure male heat. "Moran's crew is asking questions about thebartender who dropped two of their guys. They want you, Sorcha."
The way he says my name makes my pulse stutter. "So?"
"So you're mine to protect now." His hand moves to my thigh, thumb stroking dangerous circles through my jeans. "And I protect what's mine."
I should pull away. Should maintain professional distance. Instead, I find myself leaning closer.
"Pack a bag," he growls. "You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"Safe house. Isolated. Secure." His thumb presses harder against my leg. "Just you and me."
