"What, sweetheart?"
The endearment, combined with his touch, makes rational thought impossible. "We shouldn't..."
"Shouldn't what?" His hand slides higher on my thigh. "Shouldn't enjoy each other's company? Shouldn't admit there's heat between us?"
"It's complicated."
"Only if we make it complicated." He leans closer, mouth near my ear. "I want you, Sorcha. Have since the first night at the pub. But I won't push. Not unless you want me to."
My body screams yes while my mind screams danger. Professional detachment crumbles under his proximity, his scent, the heat radiating from his skin.
"I should get some sleep," I whisper, not moving away.
"Should you?" His lips brush my ear. "Or should you stop thinking so damn much and tell me what you really want?"
His hand cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. The intensity there steals my breath.
"Tell me, Sorcha. What do you want?"
The honest answer terrifies me. I want his hands on my skin. I want to taste every scar on his body. I want him to make me forget why I'm here, forget everything except the heat building between us.
Instead, I pull away. "I want to not complicate things."
Disappointment flickers across his features before he masks it. "Fair enough."
He starts to move away, but a sound from outside freezes us both. Car doors slamming. Footsteps on pavement. His hand goes to his gun while his other arm pushes me behind him.
"Lights," he whispers.
I hit the switch, plunging us into darkness. Through the window, I see two figures moving between the cars in the parking lot. They wear dark clothes and move with deadly purpose.
"Moran's people," Eamon breathes against my ear.
My blood turns ice cold. They've found me.
"Bedroom," he orders quietly. "Lock the door. Window leads to the fire escape. If shooting starts, you run and don't look back."
"What about you?"
"I can handle two men." His voice carries absolute confidence. "Go. Now."
I reluctantly obey, slipping into my bedroom but leaving the door cracked. The apartment falls silent except for my racing heartbeat.
Minutes pass like hours. Then I hear movement, voices too low to make out words. My hand finds the gun I keep in my nightstand drawer.
The front door opens and closes. Footsteps in my living room. I grip the gun tighter, finger on the trigger.
"Clear," Eamon's voice calls softly. "They moved on."
I emerge from the bedroom to find him checking the locks, shirt back on but still unbuttoned. "Are you sure?"
"Patrol sweep. They'll be back tomorrow night with more men."
The certainty in his voice makes my chest tighten. "How do you know?"
"Pattern recognition. They're escalating." He turns to face me. "This apartment isn't safe anymore."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
