When we arrived, I didn’t let her step out first. I scanned the perimeter, every shadow, every corner, before pulling her against me and leading her inside.
The women were in one of our secured compounds, guarded twenty-four-seven, but I knew Sorcha needed to see it with her own eyes. That was the only way her doubt would loosen its claws.
The heavy reinforced doors opened, and I felt her tense against me. I bent down, my lips at her ear, my voice low. “They’re safe. But you need to understand something before you step inside.”
She tilted her face toward mine, uncertain.
“There are worse things than the Irish in this city,” I said. “Demons walk among men, wearing their skins, hiding in shadows. They’re the ones that twist the world into what you’ve seen. They want blood, power, and chaos. They’re the reason you listen when I, or any of your guards, tell you something. Because if you don’t… the consequences are not survivable.”
Her eyes widened, her breath hitching. “Demons?”
“Yes.” My hand slid from her back to her hip, grounding her as much as myself. “And they’ll come for you, Sorcha. They’ll smell the bond, and they’ll know you’re mine. Which means you’re valuable. Which means you’re a target.”
She trembled, just a fraction, and I cupped her jaw, forcing her gaze to stay locked on mine. “But you’re not unprotected. You have me. You have them. And I will gut anything that tries to touch you.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. Just that spark in her eyes again, that rebellion battling with the growing weight of truth. I stepped back and pushed the doors open and led her inside.
I knew that for the first time, she saw what safety looked like in my world.
Chapter 8
The room was warmer than the warehouse had ever been, but it still smelled of fear. Not mine this time but theirs, the other women.
They were dressed now, fed, cleaned up, but the shadows hadn’t left their eyes. I knew that look; it was the same one I saw in my reflection every time I blinked too long. Trauma didn’t leave just because the chains were gone.
Their gazes flickered to me when I entered with Lucien at my back and his men flanking us. Some of them nodded, a small acknowledgment of recognition, a reminder that I had been chained beside them not so long ago. Others looked away, retreating inward.
One of them, a dark-haired woman with streaks of silver at her temples, sat straighter than the rest. Her voice was cracked but steady when she spoke. “You were with us.”
“Yes,” I said softly, moving closer. “I was.”
Her eyes filled with something that looked a lot like hope, brittle and fragile, like glass that would shatter if I looked away. It burned through the exhaustion on her face, through the purple smudges beneath her eyes. “My daughter,” she whispered, voice breaking like it hadn’t been used in weeks. “She’s sixteen. She doesn’t know if I’m alive and they won’t let me call her. They say it’s too dangerous, that I’ll lead trouble to her.”
Her hand reached for mine, trembling, her nails bitten down to the quick. Her grip was desperate, the kind of grip that came from a mother clawing for something she couldn’t live without. “Please.” Her throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing her sob. “Please, you have to talk to him. You have to make him let me reach her.”
The words hit me like a blade to the ribs. For a second I wasn’t chained anymore. I wasn’t broken and hollow. I was a girl again, standing in my mother’s kitchen, laughing over coffee, believing the world was safe. Believing there were people I could protect, people who would always be there.
I squeezed her hand, my own throat tightening. The guards said it wasn’t allowed, Lucien would probably say it wasn’t safe. But how could anyone deny her that? The thought of her daughter lying awake at night, wondering if her mother was dead in a ditch somewhere, it made my stomach twist.
“I’ll try,” I promised, my voice rough, quiet but firm enough to cut through the fear hanging in the air. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him listen.”
Even as I said it, my eyes flicked to the tall, silent predator leaning in the corner of the room. Lucien’s presence filled the space like smoke, heavy, suffocating, untouchable. And I knew the second those words left my lips that the battle I was about to start with him would be one I couldn’t walk away from.
But for the first time since I’d been freed, I didn’t care. I swallowed hard, my gaze flicking back to where Lucien stood, a shadow against the wall, arms crossed, unreadable. I knew before I even asked what his answer would be.
I turned making my way towards where he was standing, “Lucien,” I call, squaring my shoulders. “The lady I was talkingto, she has a daughter. She wants to let her know that she’s alive, that she’s well. Her daughter is only sixteen, she deserves to know her mother’s alive. Please let her contact her daughter.”
His gaze cut to me, sharp and dangerous. “No.”
The word was flat, final.
My blood boiled. “No? That’s it? You don’t even consider it? She’s terrified that her daughter thinks she’s dead, and you won’t even think about it?”
He pushed off the wall, moving toward me with that slow, predatory grace that made my skin prickle. “It’s dangerous,” he said, his tone like steel dragged across stone. “The Irish are still sniffing for leads. The demons are still circling. One phone call, one mistake, and her daughter has a target painted on her back. Do you want to be the reason she ends up in chains next?”
The woman’s face crumpled, silent tears streaking her cheeks. My hands clenched into fists. I wanted to scream at him, hit him, something. Instead, I met his gaze head-on. “So, she just has to suffer? Pretend she doesn’t have a daughter while you play jailer? That’s not protection, Lucien. That’s cruelty.”
His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. In two strides he was on me, his hand fisting in my hair as he yanked me against him, my breasts colliding with his chest. My breath hitched, but before I could spit another word, his mouth was on mine.
