The air crackles with violent attraction. Two killers circling each other, testing boundaries and finding mutual recognition.
"The Murphy crew won't forget tonight," I tell her. "They'll want blood for the humiliation."
"Let them come." No fear, just anticipation.
"They will. With guns, not fists." I straighten, decision made. "Which is why you're under my protection now."
"I don't need?—"
"You're getting it anyway. My territory, my rules."
Her chin lifts in defiance that makes me want to grab her throat and show her who's really in charge here.
"Is that an order?"
"Call it professional interest." I drop money on the bar. "I'll be in touch, Sorcha from Chicago."
Walking away requires effort when every instinct screams to stay and claim what I want. But anticipation makes everything sweeter.
Tomorrow I'll discover what secrets she's hiding. Tonight, I'll imagine all the ways I plan to break her careful control.
Because women who fight like angels of death don't randomly appear in my territory without cause.
And I intend to uncover every dangerous, deadly inch of her.
CHAPTER
FOUR
I wake to wrongness.Three years of undercover work taught me to trust my gut, and every instinct screams danger. The apartment feels violated.
Someone's been here.
The evidence shows in details others would miss. My coffee mug sits askew when I placed it parallel to the counter. Books pushed back wrong on shelves. The bathroom door cracked open when I always shut it tight.
Professional work. Too careful for thieves, too skilled for amateurs. This was a search—methodical and thorough.
I check my hidden security devices. Two are missing. Whoever did this knows their business.
My secure phone buzzes:Emergency meet. Roosevelt Park. One hour.
Byrne's timing feels deliberate. Either he knows about the break-in or someone's watching us both.
Neither option offers comfort.
Roosevelt Park provides multiple exits and decent cover—why we use it for emergency contacts. I arrive early, feeding ducks while scanning for threats.
Byrne shows up looking like hell. Wrinkled suit, bloodshot eyes, nervous energy that sets my teeth on edge.
"We have a problem," he says, dropping beside me on the bench.
"Someone searched my place last night."
His head jerks toward me. "When?"
"Professional job. Disabled my security measures, found my hiding spots." I watch his reaction carefully. "They were hunting for something specific."
"Undercover work creates paranoia. You're imagining?—"
