Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Harper
T he North Dublin neighborhood is quiet in that postcard-perfect kind of way. Pale brick houses line the narrow road, their windows dark and shuttered against the night. Ivy curls over stone fences, and dainty little flower boxes cling stubbornly to windowsills.
It’s the kind of place where people wave to their neighbors. Where porch lights glow soft and warm, not for security, but for welcome.
And yet all I feel standing on this porch is tired .
Bryan unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside so I can go inside first.
I glance at the serene street one last time, the only sound the chirp of insects and the distant bark of a dog behind a fence.
Then I cross the threshold and enter the house.
It’s cozy. Tasteful. The air smells faintly of lemon polish, like someone came through and cleaned it for company but didn’t stay long enough to say hello.
I set my suitcase and computer bag down at the base of the staircase, the worn wood creaking under the weight. The banister is carved and old-fashioned, and the light filtering from the hallway casts soft gold across the floorboards.
That’s one thing I love about being in Europe. So many of the buildings are older than the civilization of my country.
Bryan lingers behind me. “Want me to give you the tour?”
My treacherous body wants to melt into him and have him carry me up the stairs. What I said in that parking lot was harsh, but true. He killed a woman and made me part of it.
I’m hurt, angry, and feel more than a little betrayed. And despite wanting him to push inside me and make the world disappear, he’s part of the problem.
I shake my head. “Not necessary.”
It’s not about the house.
It’s just me.
I’m beyond tired. Not the kind you fix with a nap. The kind that settles deep, down in your bones. Like all the fear and adrenaline and fury I’ve been running on finally ran out and left me hollow.
What I want is a hot shower and to sleep for days behind locked doors. Alone.
Bryan must get the hint, because he nods toward the archway off the hall. “Powder room and kitchen are through there. Den and dining room to the right. Upstairs you’ve got three bedrooms and a big bathroom. Water pressure is decent.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “You should go. You need to get that looked after.” I point at the bandage on his hand. I changed the wrap on the boat, but it’s already streaked with blood seeping through, the edges curling.
“It’ll keep.”
“It won’t. I cleaned it up the best I could with the kit, but you need to have it looked at properly. You trudged through a storm drain after slicing it open on rusted metal. You need shots. Probably antibiotics, too.”
He lifts his brows, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aye, I’ll take care of it.”
He steps toward the door, but pauses to set a set of keys on the side table in the entryway. “I’ve arranged for Kieran and Drake to help you with your research. Drake used to work for the Watsons and lived in Liverpool. He knows the players there—he might have insights that will help.”
I press my lips together and nod.
“He was shot a few weeks ago,” Bryan adds, glancing at me. “He’s fighting Sean on the whole take it easy thing. So, maybe you can distract him for a time while he recovers.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He grins. “Your best is more than enough.”
“How did he end up with you if he was part of the Watson family?”
“We inherited him when a London job went sideways and they needed him out of sight. Been with us ever since. Loyal as hell. Deadly in a fight.”
“Well, hopefully all the fights are behind me.”
He chuckles softly. “If Drake’s here, you’ll probably meet Frenchie, too. The two of them are a package deal. Frick and Frack—if Frick and Frack carried Glocks and rode Harleys.”
I manage a half-smile. “Good to know. Thanks. Really. But… I’ll be fine. You can go now.”
He stills.
“I mean it, Bryan. I’m done. I got swept up in all the cloak and dagger, and made choices I probably wouldn’t have if things were quieter. I have to live with those choices. I’m trying to think clearly now, but I’m too tired. I need rest and the peace to decompress.”
His jaw ticks once. “That’s fine. Message me when you’re ready to have Drake and Kieran stop by. I’ll keep my distance, but if you need anything—day or night—you can call me. I’ll be here. No questions.”
The look he gives me then… it’s not anger. It’s not even disappointment.
It’s something else.
Something that makes my heart ache.
I hate that I’m the one who put that look on his face.
But I meant what I said. I need him to leave.
Bryan walks out, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
I reach up, twist the deadbolt, and then press my hand over my mouth.
The weight of it all hits me at once.
The grief. The exhaustion. The memory of Siobhan’s eyes. The echo of Bryan’s hands. The way it felt to be seen by someone who didn’t ask me to hide.
I sink to the floor beside my bag, knees drawn in, heart hammering behind my ribs. I don’t know if I did the right thing.
But for now, I just need to breathe.
* * *
The chair beneath me is oversized and deep, the kind that swallows you whole and lets you disappear into it.
I sit curled into the corner of it, one knee tucked up, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee that’s more creamer than caffeine. The scent of hazelnut floats around me, warm and soft, and the house is so quiet I can hear the tick of the wall clock down the hall.
Outside, the neighborhood is slow to wake.
Track Suit Dad walks his golden retriever past my window. He wears the same navy Adidas jacket every morning and carries a tennis ball launcher in his free hand. There must be a park up the road. Maybe I’ll bundle up and see if I can find it this afternoon.
I check my watch and glance the other direction down the street. Tiny Backpack Kid stomps along the sidewalk looking disgruntled as usual. He kicks the same loose paving stone near the lamppost every morning as if going to school is a personal affront.
A bicycle bell rings somewhere down the lane, and I smile. It’s interesting here, studying the world outside.
Peaceful. Safe.
And for the first time in months—since the moment I heard the news about Macie and Chantal—I feel more like myself again.
Three days of rest, hot showers, and no one trying to kill me, and suddenly my mind is freed up to work like it used to. I’ve brainstormed a handful of new angles to pursue the list of attendees at Eddie Mason’s events. I’ve mapped out timelines, cleaned up the data trail on the girls— Zhara, Chantal, Macie —and even messaged Bryan to have Kieran and Drake looped in.
They should be here soon.
Today is the day I take back control of my life.
And it feels great .
I sip my coffee, sighing as I watch a couple stroll past hand-in-hand. I don’t know them. But unlike Track Suit Dad and Tiny Backpack Kid, I don’t make up their story in my head. It’s probably sappy and demands giving up anonymity and a loss of control. No thanks.
I like my life. Knowing I depend on me to make me happy, keep me safe, and get done what needs getting done. This is what I’ve been chasing since everything fell apart—structure, safety, control.
My thoughts, as they often do lately, drift off course to a certain Irishman living his life in the city beyond this window—Bryan Quinn.
I wonder where he is. What he’s doing.
Whether his hand is healing properly.
Whether he’s sleeping at all or still walking around like a loaded gun with a fuse lit and ready to ignite.
The moment I think of him, the solid sense of control I’d been clinging to slips through my fingers like dust.
And I hate that.
I hate that he still has that kind of power over me. That the mention of his name—or the echo of it in my head—is enough to make my chest tighten.
It was supposed to be simple.
Friends who fuck. Partners in a mission. No strings, no mess.
And for a while, it was.
It was fun with a capital ‘F’.
The chemistry, the danger, the quiet moments after when he held me like I was something fragile—even though we both knew I wasn’t.
But it didn’t stay simple. At least not for me.
Somewhere between dodging bullets and sharing glasses of whiskey, it started to feel like we were a thing . Not just allies. Not just two people with scars and a high sex drive. But… something else.
Something dangerous.
I don’t do together . I don’t do reliance or vulnerability. I’ve always been the one who kept the ship afloat while everyone else lost their minds. My father worked long hours. My brothers ran wild. I made sure the bills got paid, the schoolwork got done, the schedules didn’t fall apart.
Being in control was how I survived.
It’s how I still survive.
And Bryan Quinn? He’s chaos. In every way.
He’s also the one person who made me want to let go. Who made it feel okay not to be the one holding the reins all the time.
And that scared the hell out of me.
I thought he was safe because his heart was still buried with Yasmine. He wasn’t available—not really. But then he started looking at me like I mattered. Holding me like I was his . That wasn’t the deal.
That wasn’t me .
I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose.
I miss him.
More than I’ll admit out loud. My body misses him. My brain, my heart , even though I swore it wouldn’t get that far. But walking away before I fell any deeper was the smart choice. The safe choice.
As much as I want him—and oh, I do —I’d rather live alone, in control of my world, than risk loving a man who can hold me gently one moment and snap a woman’s neck the next.
That kind of duality?
It’s not something I can reconcile.
Not even for him.
The doorbell rings and I jump. Startled out of my mental musings, I remember who’s coming. I launch out of my cozy chair, excited to see Kieran and meet Drake.
This is it. Time to take down Eddie Mason.