"Shower's yours if you want it," I offer, then immediately regret the words. Images of water running over those scars, over the muscles of his chest, flood my mind.
"Thanks. I'll grab one after you're done." His voice drops lower. "Unless you want company."
The suggestion hangs between us, loaded with possibility. My pulse jumps, body responding before my brain can stop it.
"I..." I start, then my phone rings.
Cillian's name flashes on the screen. Eamon's jaw tightens as he recognizes his brother's number.
"Take it," he says, but frustration edges his voice.
"Sorcha Quinn," I answer.
"We have a problem," Cillian says without preamble. "Moran's people hit three of our locations last night. I need all hands for a family meeting."
I catch Eamon's eye. He nods, understanding the subtext.
"Where and when?" I ask.
"Warehouse district. One hour. Eamon knows the place."
"We'll be there."
I hang up and turn to Eamon. "Your brother wants you at a family meeting."
"Us. He wants us both there." Eamon drains his coffee mug. "The attacks escalated things. You're not safe here alone anymore."
Part of me—the FBI agent part—celebrates this development. Another opportunity to observe Kavanagh family operations. But the woman whose body still burns from his casual touch feels sick at the prospect of using this access.
"I should shower first," I say.
"Five minutes," he replies, then steps closer. "We don't keep Cillian waiting."
His proximity makes breathing difficult. I escape to the bathroom, heart pounding.
The warehouse sits in an industrial area where legitimate businesses provide cover for less legal activities. Eamon parks between two black SUVs, his hand checking the gun under his jacket before we exit.
"Stay close," he murmurs, fingers finding the small of my back. "Take notes if anyone asks, but mostly just listen."
The touch burns through my shirt as he guides me inside.
The interior holds shipping containers and office equipment, but the back corner has been cleared for a conference table surrounded by chairs. Cillian stands at the head, pointing to locations on a map spread across the surface. Tiernan sits to his right, face grim. Three other men I recognize from FBI surveillance photos fill the remaining seats.
"Eamon." Cillian looks up as we approach. "Good. Sorcha, grab a chair. Document this."
I sit beside Eamon, pulling out my phone to use as a notepad. Every detail gets catalogued mentally while I type innocent-looking reminders. Names, locations, operational details—intelligence worth its weight in gold.
"Moran hit the dock warehouse, the Southie storage facility, and the auto shop on Dorchester," Cillian continues. "Professional jobs. In and out clean."
"Any casualties?" Eamon asks.
"Two wounded at the auto shop. Martinez and Kelly." Tiernan speaks for the first time. "They'll live."
One of the unknown men leans forward. "This is retaliation for the pub incident."
"No," Eamon says. "This is probing. Testing our response time and security measures."
Cillian nods agreement. "He's mapping our vulnerabilities."
