Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
SIOBHAN
S iobhan swallowed hard, but she felt no remorse. No guilt. No regret. Sebastian Wolfe was dead, and she was finally free.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the distant sounds of Finn and Murphy securing the rest of the area. Siobhan didn’t move as Daragh straightened, rolling his shoulders as if the kill had done nothing to him. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe he was so used to death that one more body on the ground meant nothing.
Except she knew better. This wasn’t just another job. This had been personal. There was a time she might have been afraid of him. No more. Instead, she wanted to throw herself into his arms.
The screech of tires outside snapped her out of her thoughts. Daragh cursed, turning toward the entrance just as a team of MI5 agents breached the wall and stormed inside.
Siobhan tensed, her fingers tightening on the grip of her stolen gun. The agents spread out, their weapons raised, their eyes scanning the scene. Their leader—a man Siobhan recognized instantly—stepped forward, his face impassive—Agent Jonathan Marks, MI5’s golden boy.
He barely spared Sebastian’s corpse a glance before his gaze locked onto Daragh. “Well,” he said, his voice carrying the clipped precision of a man used to being in control. “That was… unfortunate.”
Daragh’s fingers twitched at his sides, but he didn’t reach for his weapon. Not yet.
Marks sighed, tilting his head toward Siobhan. “You know we have to take her, O’Neill.”
Daragh didn’t flinch. “Not happening.”
Marks glanced at Sebastian’s lifeless body again before looking back at Daragh. “You’ve made quite the mess.”
“Cleaning up messes is what I do,” Daragh said easily.
Marks lifted an eyebrow, then looked toward Siobhan. “You should come with us. We can protect you.”
Siobhan let out a humorless laugh. “Like you did last time?”
Marks’s expression didn’t change. “Last time was different.”
Daragh took a slow step forward, his dominance filling the room like a living thing. “You’re not taking her.”
Marks met his gaze, unflinching. “You don’t have the authority to...”
“Actually,” a familiar voice cut in.
Siobhan turned just as Con O’Neill stepped into the warehouse, flanked by two of his men. His presence changed the entire energy of the room, the weight of his name and reputation settling over everyone like a storm cloud.
Marks tensed.
Con smiled, slow and full of dark amusement. “You were saying?”
Marks hesitated, his hand twitching toward his gun before he seemed to think better of it.
Con strolled forward, casual as ever. “Now, if you were smart, you’d turn around and pretend you never saw a thing.”
Marks clenched his jaw. “You think MI5 will just walk away from this?”
“I think,” Con said, still smiling, “that if you try to take her, you’ll start a war you can’t win.”
Marks held his gaze for a long moment before letting out a sharp breath. “This isn’t over.”
Con’s grin widened. “It never is.”
Without another word, Marks turned on his heel, motioning for his men to fall back. Within seconds, they were gone, their black SUVs disappearing into the night.
Daragh didn’t move, his focus still locked on the door.
Siobhan stepped closer, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. “It’s over.”
Daragh turned, and the look in his eyes made her stomach flip. “It’ll never be over,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against her wrist, his grip warm and solid. “But you’re safe. And that’s all that matters.”
Siobhan swallowed against the lump in her throat. She had needed no one to fight for her. Had let no one claim her battles as their own. But Daragh wasn’t just anyone. He was her protector, but more than that, he was her mate.
The O’Neill estate loomed in the distance, its dark stone walls standing firm against the morning mist that clung to the hills. The drive from the warehouse had been silent, tension thick in the SUV as Daragh kept one hand on the wheel and the other clenched around her wrist, as if he thought she might disappear if he let go.
Siobhan didn’t fight him. She didn’t pull away, didn’t argue, didn’t pretend she was anything but what she was in that moment—shaken, exhausted, and struggling under the weight of everything she had gone through, everything she had done.
Sebastian Wolfe was dead. His lifeless body had been nothing more than a heap on the floor when Daragh had holstered his gun, stepping back without so much as a flicker of remorse. She had thought she would feel something—relief, vengeance, maybe even satisfaction. But there had been nothing. No great surge of victory, no cathartic release. The cold realization hit her: one monster was gone, but the shadows of her past would remain forever.
She had been trained for this. Conditioned to play the game, to infiltrate, to deceive, to kill if necessary. And yet, as she sat in the passenger seat of Daragh’s car, his presence a solid force beside her, she wondered if she had ever truly known who she was beneath it all.
When they pulled through the gates of the estate, Murphy and Finn were already waiting, their expressions hard as they scanned the grounds, ever-watchful, ever-ready for a fight that might not yet be over. Con’s men had reinforced the perimeter, their numbers tripled since the last attack, ensuring that MI5, or whatever desperate remnants of Sebastian’s network remained, wouldn’t have a chance to retaliate.
Daragh parked the vehicle, but he didn’t move. He sat there for a long moment, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel, his gaze locked on the house as if it held all the answers he refused to voice.
Siobhan swallowed, her throat tight. “You did it,” she whispered.
Daragh’s head turned, his eyes pinning her in place. “We did it.”
A lump formed in her throat. She had never been part of a ‘we’ before. She had spent years on the outskirts, running, surviving, never truly belonging to anyone or anywhere.
She reached for the door handle, but Daragh’s hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist again. “We’re not finished.”
Her breath hitched. “Daragh…”
“No.” His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge beneath it. “Not yet.”
He climbed out of the car, moving to her side before she could protest. He opened the door, offering his hand. She hesitated, her fingers curling against her palm, but the way he looked at her, the way his presence wrapped around her like something tangible, left her with no choice but to take it.
The moment their hands met, Daragh pulled her to her feet, his grip firm, his dominance radiating through every touch. He didn’t let go as he led her into the house, past Murphy, past Finn, past the lingering gazes of the men who had risked their lives to bring her back.
The moment they stepped into their bedroom, the door shut behind them, Daragh released her only to cup her face between his hands, his thumbs tracing over her cheekbones.
“Say it.”
Her lips parted, confusion flickering across her face. “Say what?”
His jaw tensed, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Tell me you’re staying.”
Siobhan’s breath caught in her throat. It would have been easier to lie, to tell him what he wanted to hear, to let herself sink into the illusion of safety he offered. But Daragh didn’t want an illusion. He wanted the truth, and so did she.
“I don’t know if I know how,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Daragh’s grip tightened, but not out of anger. “How what?”
“How to be part of this.” Her fingers curled into his shirt, fisting the fabric as if that alone could ground her. “How to be yours.”
His gaze darkened, something primal flashing in those ice-blue depths. “You already are.”
A shiver ran down her spine.
Daragh dropped his hands to her waist, pulling her flush against him. “You think I want to change you? That I want you to be something you’re not?” His voice was quiet but firm, as if he was daring her to deny the truth. “You are mine, Siobhan. Not because I forced you, not because I took you from Wolfe, but because you chose me.”
Her throat tightened. “I never had a choice.”
Daragh’s fingers dug into her hips, his control barely leashed. “Then run.”
She froze.
Daragh stepped back, his grip loosening, giving her space she didn’t want. “Run, kitten,” he murmured. “If you truly don’t want this—don’t want me—walk out that door, and I won’t stop you.”
Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, her breath coming too fast, too uneven. She couldn’t move.
Because the truth was staring her in the face, glaringly obvious in the way her body leaned toward him, in the way her soul ached to stay.
Daragh’s lips curled—not in amusement, not in arrogance, but in understanding. “That’s what I thought.”
A ragged breath escaped her. “Damn you.”
Daragh’s hands were back on her before she could say another word, his mouth crushing hers in a kiss that stole the very air from her lungs. It was fire and possession, a claiming as deep as the mark on her neck.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her body melting against his as she surrendered to the inevitable.
She wasn’t running. Not now. Not ever. She was his. And it was about time she admitted it—not only to him, but to herself.
The air between them was thick with unspoken words, but Siobhan didn’t need them—not when Daragh’s touch was enough to set her blood on fire, to strip her down to something bare, something real.
Her breath hitched as he ran his hands down her arms, tracing every inch of her like he was memorizing her all over again. She should have been afraid. Should have questioned what it meant to truly belong to someone. But for the first time in her life, she wasn’t questioning anything.
Because it wasn’t just possession… it wasn’t just the bond… it was love.
She had fought against it, clawed at the edges of it, pretended it wasn’t real. That it was lust, or control, or simply the consequence of a claiming bond that neither of them had been able to resist. But that had been a lie.
She did have a choice. She always had. And she was choosing him.
Daragh’s grip tightened as if he could feel her decision, as if the knowledge of it burned through his soul the same way it burned through hers. His jaw was taut, his eyes dark with something deeper than hunger. “Say it, kitten.”
Her lips parted, the words caught in her throat.
Daragh didn’t wait. His fingers threaded through her hair, tipping her chin up, his voice low and edged with something almost vulnerable. “Say it, Siobhan.”
A tremor went through her, but it wasn’t fear. It was certainty.
“I love you.”
Daragh’s entire body went still. She had never seen him look shaken before, seen nothing but complete control, but right now, he wasn’t the enforcer, wasn’t the killer who had painted Dublin in blood for her. He was just hers.
“Your turn,” she said, staring at him with a blatant challenge. He was silent too long, and she kicked him in the shins, making him growl. “Say it.”
He shook his head, smiling at her. “I love you.” His throat worked as he studied her, something unspoken passing between them. “Now, you say it again.”
Siobhan’s fingers curled into his shirt, her heart hammering as she whispered, “I love you, Daragh O’Neill.”
His control seemed to shatter. The next second, she was in his arms, his mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss so deep, so consuming, it sent her reeling. His hands were everywhere—gripping her hips, dragging her against him, branding her with every touch, every stroke of his tongue.
A possessive growl rumbled from his chest as he backed her toward the bed, his body pressing her down into the mattress, covering her, surrounding her. “You’re mine, Siobhan.”
She gasped as his teeth scraped along her jaw, his fingers making quick work of the buttons on her tunic. “Yes.”
His lips curved against her skin, but it wasn’t in amusement—it was something darker, something primal. “Say it again.”
Siobhan arched as he peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her to him inch by inch. “I’m yours.”
Daragh’s hands slid down her sides, his grip firm, unrelenting. “And I am yours, kitten. No one will ever take me from you.”
Her breath stuttered as he stripped away the rest of her clothing, his fingers tracing every curve, every inch of her skin like a man worshipping his goddess. His touch was fire and possession, but it was also reverence.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body already aching for him, but he didn’t rush. Not this time.
This wasn’t about control, wasn’t about proving a point or staking a claim. This was something deeper.
Daragh’s mouth trailed lower, his breath hot against her stomach. “You’ve been mine from the moment I laid eyes on you,” he murmured. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Siobhan swallowed hard, her fingers threading through his hair as she admitted, “I did.”
A deep sound of satisfaction rumbled from his chest. “Then let me show you.”
He removed his clothes before moving lower, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading her for him as his mouth descended. Siobhan cried out, her back arching as his tongue swept over her, slow, deliberate.
Daragh didn’t let up. He pinned her down, forcing her to take every stroke, every flick of his tongue until she was gasping, writhing beneath him.
“Daragh...”
He growled against her, the vibration sending shudders through her. “Say my name when you come, kitten.”
Her nails bit into his shoulders as pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped. She shattered beneath him; her cry filling the room as her body pulsed, pleasure rippling through every nerve.
Daragh didn’t give her time to recover.
He surged up her body, his hands gripping her thighs as he positioned himself at her entrance. “Look at me.”
Siobhan forced her heavy-lidded gaze open, meeting his eyes. His dominance wrapped around her like a physical force, but beneath it, there was something deeper.
“I love you, Siobhan.”
Her heart clenched.
Then he thrust inside her, seating himself to the hilt, stretching her in a way that made her gasp.
Daragh groaned, his grip tightening. “You feel that, kitten? You feel how perfectly you fit around me?”
Siobhan dug her nails into his back, her body clenching around him as she whimpered, “Yes.”
He pulled back, only to drive into her again, harder this time. “No more running,” he growled. “No more doubting.”
She could barely think, could barely breathe, but she still found the words. “Never.”
Daragh groaned, his movements turning desperate, every thrust a promise, every stroke a vow. Siobhan met him, her body moving in perfect rhythm with his, her hands clutching him as if she could pull him even closer.
Pleasure built again, faster, sharper, overwhelming.
Daragh reached between them, his fingers finding her most sensitive spot, sending her spiraling into bliss. She cried out his name, her body shaking as she shattered around him.
Daragh’s growl was pure satisfaction as he thrust into her once more, his entire body tensing before he followed her over the edge, burying himself deep as he claimed her all over again.
They stayed like that, tangled together, breathless, undone.
Daragh pressed a kiss to her temple, his grip never loosening. “Mine,” he murmured.
Siobhan sighed, turning her head to brush her lips against his. “Yours.”
A satisfied growl rumbled in his chest, but beneath it was something else—something softer.
Because for all his dominance, for all his possessiveness, Daragh O’Neill had never truly caged her. He had protected her, fought for her, bled for her. And now, she had chosen him.