Before I can respond, his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is brutal, claiming, nothing gentle about it. His tongue demands entrance, and I open for him without hesitation.
He tastes like whiskey and danger, like everything I shouldn't want but can't resist. His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head for deeper access while his body pins me against the counter.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"This is a mistake," I pant.
"Probably." His forehead rests against mine. "But I'm done pretending I don't want you."
"We can't?—"
"Can't what? Want each other? Too late for that." His hands frame my face. "You're under my protection now, which means you're mine. And I take care of what's mine."
The possessive words should anger me. Instead, they make me ache with need I can't acknowledge.
"Get some sleep," he says, stepping back. "Tomorrow we figure out how to keep you alive."
"And tonight?"
His smile turns predatory. "Tonight I keep watch. Make sure nothing happens to you while you're dreaming."
"What if I can't sleep?"
"Then I'll have a problem." His eyes burn into mine. "Because the only thing standing between us right now is that bedroom door. And my self-control isn't what it used to be."
The threat hangs in the air as I grab my bag and retreat to the bedroom. Through the thin walls, I hear him moving around, settling in for a long night of keeping watch.
I lie in the unfamiliar bed, hyperaware of his presence just yards away. Every sound makes my pulse race. Every creak of the floorboards reminds me that only a door separates us.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:Enjoying your new accommodations?
Ice floods my veins. Someone knows where I am. Someone is watching.
I check the locks, peer through the curtains, see nothing but darkness and trees. But the message proves what I suspected—this safe house is anything but safe.
And the man protecting me might be the greatest danger of all.
CHAPTER
NINE
The pub buzzeswith Saturday night energy when everything goes to hell. I nurse my Jameson at the end of the bar, watching Sorcha work. She moves between tables with practiced grace, carrying trays and dodging wandering hands. Three weeks of watching her, and I still catch new details—how she counts tips without looking down, how she remembers every order without writing anything.
The front door opens. Cold air rushes in along with three men I recognize.
Lorcan Moran strides through Finnegan's like he owns the place. His crew flanks him—two massive guys who scan the room while their boss adjusts his expensive coat. Every conversation dies as heads turn.
Moran commands attention without trying. Red hair slicked back, green eyes calculating every face in the room. Designer suit that costs more than most people make in a month. The kind of man who never gets told no.
He spots Sorcha right away.
I set my glass down and shift position. Better angle if things go bad. The regular customers sense trouble—conversationsresume but voices stay lower. Everyone knows what Moran represents.
Territory war.
Sorcha finishes taking an order and heads toward the kitchen. Moran intercepts her path, blocking the narrow passage between tables.
"Excuse me," she says.
