Chapter 21
LIAM
I stare at her for a long moment, the gun steady in her grip. Most people holding a weapon on me would be sweating, their aim wavering. Siobhan’s hand is rock-solid, her finger resting just outside the trigger guard like she’s been doing this her whole life.
Apparently, she has, although I doubt she has ever threatened a man at gunpoint to make her come before.
The thought sends a dark thrill through me that has nothing to do with the barrel pointed at my face and everything to do with the woman behind it. She’s magnificent. Feral and furious, grief and rage transforming her into something sharp enough to cut.
“You’re serious,” I say, though it’s not really a question.
“Make me come, or I pull this trigger.” Her voice doesn’t waver. “Your choice.”
A laugh escapes me, rough and genuine. “You’re going to shoot me because I didn’t let you finish?”
“I’m going to shoot you because you think you can control me like some fucking puppet.” The gun doesn’t move an inch. “You want me to listen? To follow your orders? Then prove you’re worth following. Prove you see me as more than just another asset to manipulate.”
The challenge hangs between us, loaded with more than just the threat of violence. She’s testing me. Pushing back against every assumption, every power play, every moment I’ve tried to dominate her.
I could disarm her. I could have the gun out of her hand in two moves. I don’t. I don’t because that would prove her point that I see her as something to control rather than an equal in this fucked-up war we’re waging. I want to see what she does when I hand her the reins and the weapon.
My fingers press harder against her clit, finding the rhythm I know she needs. Her breath hitches, she spreads her legs wider, but the gun doesn’t waver.
“You want proof?” I ask, my voice low. “Fine.”
I work her with a ruthless focus, memorizing each shudder that ripples through her body when I hit the perfect spot. Her breath catches in tiny, broken gasps, but the cold barrel against my temple never wavers. The contradiction makes my cock throb painfully.
“I’m not doing this because you’ve got me at gunpoint,” I murmur, dragging my thumb in a figure eight that makes her thighs quiver. “I’m doing it because watching you take what you want makes me harder than anything has in years. Keep that weapon steady while I make you fall apart.”
Her breathing quickens, thighs tensing under my touch.
The gun trembles slightly, but it’s not from weakness, but from the pleasure coursing through her body.
I need to feel her slippery under my fingers, feel her pulsating as I give her the climax she is looking for.
With a quick snap of her waistband, my fingers slide over her clit, pinching it again, teasing it, twisting it until she is panting.
Her pupils dilate as I feel the way her body responds to every deliberate touch.
The barrel stays pointed at me, but I can see her losing the battle between control and surrender.
Her free hand grips the door handle, knuckles white, as if anchoring herself against the tide threatening to pull her under.
“That’s it,” I murmur, increasing the pressure. “You want to be in charge? Then take it. Come on my fingers while you hold that gun to my head.”
Her lips part, a soft whimper escaping before she can stop it. She’s getting close, her body coiling tighter, thighs trembling on the leather seat. The power dynamic between us is intoxicating. She has the weapon, but I have her pleasure in my palm.
“Liam,” she gasps, my name a desperate plea.
“Come for me like a good girl, Siobhan. Let me feel you soak my fingers.”
Her orgasm hits like a storm. Her back arches off the seat, thighs clamping around my hand as she rides the waves. The gun shakes violently, her finger still mercifully outside the trigger guard as pleasure overwhelms every other instinct.
She rides my hand through it, drawing out every aftershock until she’s done. Only then do I carefully reach up and take the Glock from her trembling fingers, flicking the safety on before setting it on the console between us.
“You’re insane,” I say, though admiration colors my voice more than anger.
She’s still catching her breath, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed with satisfaction. “You’re the one who decided to edge me in a parking garage.”
“Fair point.” I withdraw my hand, bringing my fingers to my mouth to taste her. Her eyes track the movement, darkening again. “But next time you point a gun at me, make sure you’re actually willing to pull the trigger.”
“Who says I wasn’t?”
The question hangs between us, genuine and terrifying. I study her face, looking for the lie, the bluff. I find nothing but cold certainty. She would have shot me. Maybe not killed me, but she would have put a bullet somewhere painful to prove her point.
“You’re more like your father than you think,” I observe.
Her expression shutters immediately. “Don’t.”
“It’s not an insult.” I lick my fingers clean, then turn to back the car out of the parking space.
“Michael Kelly built an empire through sheer force of will and the absolute refusal to be controlled by anyone. You’ve got that same fire.
It’s why Chris is terrified of you. It’s why Connor wants you neutralized or absorbed. ”
She adjusts her leggings back into place, regaining her composure with impressive speed. “And what do you want?”
The question should be simple. I should have a clear answer. But the truth is complicated, messy, dangerous in ways I’m not ready to examine.
“I want you to survive this,” I say finally, navigating out of the garage and onto the street. “I want Chris Kelly dead. I want to watch you take everything he thinks he’s entitled to and burn his world to ash with it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring out the window at Dublin sliding past. The city looks different at night, all shadows and streetlights, beauty hiding brutality just beneath the surface. Like us.
“Where are we going first?” she asks.
“The docks. There’s an armory there that would make most small countries jealous.” I take a turn onto the main road, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror for tails. “We load up, then we hit the gallery. But we do reconnaissance first. Can you tap into the cameras?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have my phone.”
“Then we go back and get it.”
She snaps her head to stare at me. “Back to my apartment?”
“That’s where it is, isn’t it?”
She nods slowly.
“The sniper will be gone,” I say, the words a calculated risk, not a guarantee. “Pros don’t linger after a miss. They’ll have pulled back to report their failure.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” I meet her gaze, forcing a certainty into my own that I don’t entirely feel.
“The risk is in the approach. We’ll park two blocks away, go in through the service entrance.
Five minutes, in and out. You get your phone, your laptop, anything you need to access your systems. We need eyes inside that gallery before we go anywhere near it. Oh, and some running shoes.”
She looks from my face to the gun on the console, then back again. She’s weighing the risk against the reward. The ability to see the trap before we walk into it.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But if you’re wrong and there’s a sniper still there, I’m shooting you myself.”
“Deal.” I change direction, heading back toward her building. My mind runs through the approach, calculating angles and exposure points. The service entrance is the best option. It’s less visible from the street, more cover. But it also means we’re boxed in if things go sideways.
I park exactly two blocks away, killing the engine in the shadow between streetlights. The neighborhood is upscale enough that a car like mine doesn’t draw attention, but not so upscale that there aren’t hiding spots for someone watching.
“Stay close,” I say, checking the Glock before handing it back to her. “If I tell you to run, you run. No arguments.”
“I don’t run anymore, remember?” She takes the weapon, checking it herself with practiced efficiency. “I burn things down.”
Christ, she’s going to get us both killed. Or make me fall completely in love with her. Possibly both.
I grab a weapon from under the seat and nod.
We exit the vehicle, but instead of moving out, I go to the trunk and pop it.
I pull out a device that will disable the electronic lock, another gun and a blade that is the up close and personal kind of violence.
Closing the lid quietly, we move through the shadows with deliberate care, my hand at the small of her back, guiding her along the safest route.
Every window is a potential threat, every parked car a possible ambush point.
But the street remains quiet, empty of everything except the distant sound of traffic from the main road and the flip-flops slapping against the pavement.
We reach the service entrance, and I pull out the device, attaching it to the electronic lock.
It whirrs softly, cycling through codes until the mechanism clicks open.
I push the door open slowly, checking the stairwell beyond. Empty.
“Up,” I murmur, keeping my voice low.
As soon as we hit the interior, Siobhan removes the flip-flops and tucks them into the back of her leggings. I nod my approval. We take the stairs two at a time, moving as quietly as possible. Each landing brings a fresh surge of adrenaline, my senses heightened.
When we reach her floor, I pause at the door, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no telltale signs of someone waiting on the other side.
I crack it open, sweeping the hallway with my weapon. Clear.
“Fast,” I remind her.
We move to her apartment door. The lock is intact, no signs of forced entry. I use the device again, and we’re inside within seconds. The space feels violated despite nothing being obviously disturbed. The shattered window gapes like an open wound, cool night air flowing through the apartment.
“No Garda presence,” she murmurs with a frown.
“You were expecting it?”
She shakes her head. “No, I suppose not until someone notices the window is missing.”
“The joys of having self-centered neighbors far enough away who either look the other way or don’t even hear the shatter of glass in the first place. Phone first,” I say, moving to position myself where I can watch both the window and the door.
She crosses to her bedroom, returning moments later with her phone, laptop, and wearing a pair of running shoes. She’s also grabbed a jacket.
“Got it,” she says, shoving her phone and laptop into a leather messenger bag she’s pulled from the closet.
I move toward the window, careful to stay to the side, using the wall as cover while I scan the rooftops across the street. No glint of a scope. No shadow that doesn’t belong. The sniper’s gone, just like I predicted, but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up anyway.
Something feels off.
“We need to move,” I say, turning back to find Siobhan pulling open a drawer in her kitchen.
“One more thing.” She reaches in and pulls at something that is stuck to the bottom of the drawer above. A USB drive. “Financial records. The less legit kind.”
I nod and gesture with my head to move out.
I scan the hallway and then step aside for her to join me, pulling the door closed behind her. “Quickly and quietly,” I mutter as we hit the stairs. We hit the landing for the ground floor when the door above us bangs open. Heavy footsteps echo down the stairwell, at least three sets, moving fast.
“Run,” I say, not bothering to whisper now.
We burst through the service entrance into the alley. The Aston Martin is two blocks away, might as well be two miles with armed men behind us. I grab Siobhan’s hand and pull her left, away from the car, toward the maze of back alleys that snake through this part of the city.
“The car—” she starts.
“Is exactly where they’ll expect us to go.” I’m already running, keeping her close.
We round a corner into a narrower alley. Siobhan keeps pace beside me, her breathing controlled despite the sprint. Her mother trained her well.
A shot rings out, the bullet sparking off a brick two feet from my head.
“Fuck,” I grunt, pulling Siobhan behind a dumpster. I return fire, not aiming to hit, just to make them think twice about charging forward. The sound echoes off the walls, deafening in the confined space.
“How many?” Siobhan asks, her voice steady despite the chaos.
I risk a glance around the dumpster. Three men, spread out across the alley mouth.
“Three that I can see,” I reply, calculating angles and options. “Could be more.”
“We can’t stay here.” She’s right. This position is defensible for maybe thirty seconds before they flank us.
“When I move, you follow. Stay low, stay close.” I check my ammunition. “We need to reach the main street. Keep the gunfire to a minimum, if possible, remember handguns are—”
“Restricted in Ireland. I know.”
I smirk. “On three?”
She nods.
“One.” I shift my weight, preparing to move.
“Two.”
“Three.”
We burst from cover, sprinting deeper into the alley.
I fire twice over my shoulder, forcing them to duck.
The narrow passage opens into a wider service road, with delivery trucks parked along one side.
I pull Siobhan behind one, using it as mobile cover as we work our way toward the lights of the main street ahead, where we can pick up a taxi or even a fucking bus at this rate.
We head towards a street lined with pubs and restaurants and slow down. No one in their right mind will attempt to lay us out in the middle of this lit up and populated area. We amble along, trying not to look suspicious, guns stashed as we scan for a taxi.
I see one approaching and hold my hand up. The taxi slows, and I yank the door open, practically shoving Siobhan inside before sliding in behind her.
“Where to?” the driver asks, his eyes flicking to us in the rearview mirror with the disinterest of someone who’s seen everything Dublin has to offer at night.
“The docks,” I say, keeping my voice casual despite my racing pulse. “Warehouse district.”
The driver nods and pulls into traffic. I watch out the back window, checking for a tail.
Nothing.
I sit back and blow out a breath.
“Now we have no car,” Siobhan mutters.
I grin at her. “Oh, ye of little faith. Now, we upgrade to an armored vehicle that will stop a fucking explosion.”
The cabbie’s eyes widen in the rearview mirror, and I nod at him. “Just kidding.”
Siobhan snickers and looks over her shoulder. “Are all dates with you this active?” she asks.
“You have no fucking idea,” I reply, rubbing my face with a sigh.