Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
SIOBHAN
D ublin, Ireland
Present Day
The grandeur of the O'Reilly Estate was nothing short of breathtaking. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, refracting the warm glow of candlelight across gilded walls, and a quartet played soft violin strains that threaded through the murmur of conversation and the clink of champagne flutes. The elite of Dublin moved through the space with practiced ease, the men in sharp tuxedos, the women wrapped in silks and diamonds, every word spoken layered with meaning.
Siobhan lingered at the periphery, a shadow against the opulence, exactly as she intended.
She had no desire to mingle with Dublin’s elite beyond what was necessary. Attending the gala was a calculated move; she sought to quietly evaluate the art on display and acquire pieces for her gallery. The O’Reillys held one of the most exclusive private collections in the city, and tonight’s charity event had been the perfect opportunity to glimpse what might soon find its way onto the market.
Still, it was a risk.
Slipping unnoticed through the city’s most powerful circles was an art form in itself, one she had perfected over the years. She had built a life on invisibility, on staying just out of reach, never leaving a trace. Even now, she had taken precautions—her dark auburn hair pulled into a sleek chignon, the emerald silk of her gown understated, elegant, and unmemorable. She was just another patron, another woman in a sea of wealth and status, no different from the rest.
Except she was different. And there were men here who knew it.
She scanned the room with casual precision, eyes flicking past familiar faces without betraying recognition. A politician from London, speaking too close to a woman who wasn’t his wife. A French businessman she had once overheard discussing offshore accounts with a Russian who’d later disappeared. And—there—near the grand staircase, a man she knew all too well.
Sebastian Wolfe—the wolf-shifter whose family had bastardized their kind into a surname.
The name curled in her gut like acid.
He hadn’t seen her. Not yet. But she recognized the way he moved—an arrogance that came naturally to men who believed themselves untouchable. He wore his wealth like armor, his tailored black tuxedo a perfect fit for his broad frame, his golden hair meticulously styled. MI5 had polished him to perfection, but Siobhan knew what lurked beneath the surface.
He had once vowed to protect her. Had promised forever. Siobhan had soon learned there was a difference between love and possession, and the latter was what Wolfe had promised. But he had turned on her without hesitation to save himself
Her heartbeat remained steady, her breath controlled, but a distant awareness coiled low in her belly. She had been careful— so damn careful. She had buried her name under layers of forged documents and misdirection. If he was here, it wasn’t by chance.
Someone had noticed her.
Turning sharply, she wove through the crowd, slipping past waitstaff and guests alike, her movements fluid and effortless. She needed to leave before he saw her, before he realized that the dead woman he had once claimed as his fiancée was very much alive.
A tray of champagne flutes passed, and she plucked one from the surface without breaking stride, bringing it to her lips just for something to do with her hands. Keep moving. Keep blending.
Another step, another body between them, another inch of safety.
Then, just as she neared the arched doorway leading toward the terrace, a photographer raised his camera. The lens pointed in her direction—not at her, but at the woman beside her, a socialite laughing at something her escort whispered in her ear.
The camera clicked.
Siobhan thought she turned her face just in time, the shutter sound sparking something instinctive and dangerous deep within her. She kept walking, the rush of conversation swallowing her whole, but dread settled at the base of her spine.
She had spent years erasing herself from the world.
And in a single careless moment, she might have been captured, anyway.
The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of Siobhan’s Dublin flat, casting soft patterns across the oak floors. The city hummed beyond her windows, the distant sound of traffic and early risers filling the air. In another life, she might have enjoyed the quiet moment, the illusion of normalcy.
Instead, she sat frozen at the small kitchen island, a cup of untouched coffee cooling beside her, her eyes locked onto the tablet screen in front of her.
The Dublin Society Gazette .
The headline was meaningless. Another charity gala, another list of names belonging to the elite who had attended, another glossy spread of carefully curated photographs. It was the image beneath the text that stole the breath from her lungs.
A powerful politician caught mid-conversation with his latest mistress, the focus of the shot crisp and clear. But it wasn’t them Siobhan cared about. It was the reflection in the massive, gilded mirror behind them—her reflection.
The emerald silk of her gown, the curve of her bare shoulder, the side of her face partially turned away from the camera—blurry but recognizable. Siobhan clenched her fingers around the tablet, pulse hammering in her throat.
How had she been so careless? She had mastered the art of slipping through the cracks, of moving unseen through places she shouldn’t have been. For years, she had erased herself from the world’s gaze, dismantling every trace of the woman she had once been. Now, because of one careless moment, one stroke of bad luck, everything was unraveling.
The screen blurred as she stared, the heat of unshed tears burning behind her eyes. It had been years since she cried.
Sebastian Wolfe read the society pages. She knew it as surely as she knew that the man was still hunting her, his obsession a sickness that had festered for years. MI5 would see it too—because if Sebastian had never truly let her go, neither had they.
A small part of her clung to hope, to reason. Maybe it wasn’t clear enough. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe she was only panicking because she had spent too long looking over her shoulder.
Then her phone buzzed. The burner, the one she used only when it was time to disappear.
No one had that number. No one should have that number.
A sharp knot formed in her stomach as she reached for the device.
One new message: You should have stayed dead.
Her skin turned ice cold. Sebastian had seen it. He had seen her. A strange stillness took hold of her as she stared at the words, her heartbeat slowing, her breath leveling. She knew what came next. The polite waiting years were over. There would be no more silence. No more shadows.
He was coming for her.
Her body moved before thought, before logic. The tablet clattered against the countertop as she shoved back her chair and strode to the hallway. She was already mentally cataloging the escape routes, the pre-packed bag stashed beneath the floorboards of her bedroom closet, the routes she had mapped years ago.
She could be gone within the hour. She could disappear again. But something deep inside her rebelled at the thought. For the first time in years, she had built something real. She had her gallery, her art, a life that she had carved out for herself from the wreckage of the past.
Running meant leaving it all behind.
Her grip tightened on the phone. For years, she had been waiting for this moment, waiting for the inevitable. Sebastian was a storm she had always known would come for her again. But this time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to run.
Siobhan forced herself to breathe, slow and controlled, as she moved through her flat. The urge to flee consumed her, but years of survival had taught her that panic caused the most dangerous mistakes.
Sebastian had seen the photo, of that much she was certain. And if he had, others had as well. MI5. The people who had once tried to lock her away, convinced she was more useful in a cage than free in the world. And then there was the O’Neill family.
She hadn’t crossed paths with them in years, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe they had forgotten her. The criminal underworld never truly let go of anyone who had value. And once upon a time, she had been valuable to them.
Her mind worked quickly as she moved through the apartment, her bare feet soundless against the wood floors. A packed duffle sat beneath the loose floorboard in her closet—cash, IDs, burner phones, weapons. She had always known this moment would come.
Yet something about it felt different this time. She should have already been on her way out of the city. The sensible part of her knew that. But as she stepped into her bedroom, reaching for the bag, a shiver slid down her spine. A whisper of something dark and unseen. Someone was watching her.
She froze, every nerve in her body alive with warning. Her gaze flicked to the window. She had drawn the curtains, but that meant nothing. She had grown up trusting instincts most people ignored, and right now, hers were screaming.
She forced herself to move, slower this time, careful not to make a sound.
The bag. Her gun. Out the door.
She crouched down, fingers curling around the wooden floorboard. With practiced ease, she pried it loose, revealing the dark space beneath.
And then she heard it. A noise. Soft. Almost imperceptible, but not inside the apartment. Outside.
Her fingers wrapped around the grip of her Glock as she rose to her feet. The fine hairs along her arms lifted. Whoever was out there wasn’t just passing through. They weren’t a random intruder—they were here for her.
She inched toward the window, staying just out of direct sight. Slowly, carefully, she shifted the curtain, peering into the darkened street below. A black SUV sat idle on the opposite side of the road. Its engine was silent, but she wasn’t fooled. The vehicle didn’t belong there.
She scanned the area, catching movement near the alleyway. A man. Tall, broad, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with brute strength and everything to do with presence. He leaned against the brick wall, half shrouded in shadow, but even from this distance, Siobhan could sense the power in his stance.
Not Sebastian. Not MI5. Someone worse. Someone who belonged to the kind of men who didn’t ask for things. They took them.
The blood flowing through her veins turned to ice. Con O’Neill’s people.
She had been careful. She had stayed away. But one photograph had been enough to bring her past crashing down on her. The man moved, shifting slightly in the dim glow of the streetlights. She couldn’t see his face. But she knew he wasn’t just watching the building… he was hunting her.
Siobhan had no intention of being caught. Her grip on the gun tightened as she backed away from the window. She had minutes, maybe less. The SUV hadn’t moved yet, which meant they were waiting for something—or someone. She turned, heart hammering, forcing herself to think.
She could still get out. She had alternate IDs, an exit plan. But she had hesitated too long, and now she would have to fight to disappear. She slung the duffle over her shoulder, moving swiftly toward the door.
One step. Two. A knock echoed through the apartment—firm, unyielding.
Siobhan’s blood went from ice to wildfire in the space of a heartbeat. They weren’t waiting anymore. They were here. Her fingers curled around the gun as she backed toward the fire escape. She had survived too much to go down like this.
If they thought they could take her easily, they were dead wrong.