She doesn't look up. "Just doing my job."
"Your job involves killing people?"
"My job involves protecting customers." She dries her hands, meeting my gaze. "Those men threatened innocents in my territory."
Territory. Not section or area. She thinks like a soldier.
"Where did you learn to fight?"
A pause. "Ex-boyfriend. Former Special Forces. Said a woman alone needed skills."
Plausible but practiced. Her movements showed training beyond civilian instruction—military precision disguised as self-defense.
"Must have been quite a teacher."
"He had his moments." Her tongue darts across her lower lip, and I imagine that mouth doing other things. "Will there be anything else?"
Using my name without introduction. Another detail that doesn't fit.
"Call me Eamon."
"Eamon." She tastes the sound, and I want to taste her. "Strong name. Suits you."
Heat builds between us—predator recognizing predator, violence leading to other hungers.
"What brought you to Boston, Sorcha?"
"Opportunity. Fresh start."
"From where?"
"Chicago. Southside."
Every answer precise but vague. Professional evasion wrapped in casual conversation.
"Big change."
"I adapt." Her eyes hold mine. "To whatever the situation requires."
The double meaning sends blood rushing to my cock. This woman radiates danger and sex in equal measure—exactly what my twisted soul craves.
"Everyone hides something," I observe.
"What are you hiding?" she challenges.
"The urge to bend you over this bar and find out what you're really hiding."
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't back down. "That would be unprofessional."
"I don't do professional when it comes to women who kill for sport."
"Who says I kill for sport?"
"Your eyes." I lean closer, close enough to smell her skin. "They're the eyes of someone who's taken life and enjoyed it."
Her pupils dilate. "And if they are?"
"Then we have more in common than you think."
