Chapter 19 Declan
DECLAN
Amuffled buzzing pulls me from sleep. I crack one eye open, disoriented. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar bed. The weight of a warm body pressed against my side.
It takes me a second to realize where I am: Lyra's bed, her sheets tangled around me, her scent embedded into the pillow beside me.
The events of last night flood back. Her mouth. Her body. The way she came apart around me, screaming my name. The shower after, where I take her again, slower this time, with her back against the tile.
She's curled against me now.
She's curled on her side, back to me, bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the blanket. Her dark hair spilling across the pillow. Her breathing is soft. Peaceful.
She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
I'm fucked. Completely fucked.
The noise comes again. A buzz. More insistent now. Low, constant.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. It's not in here. It's coming from the living room.
My phone.
I left it in the living room with my clothes.
"Shit," I say quietly, as I slide out of bed, pausing when she stirs. She mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over, still deeply asleep. I pull the blanket over her shoulder, allowing myself one more moment to look at her before stepping into the hallway.
My clothes are in a pile on her living room floor. I grab my phone from my jacket pocket just as it stops vibrating, only to start again immediately.
Shane.
"What is it?" I keep my voice low, glancing back toward the bedroom.
"Boss, we got a situation." Shane's voice is urgent. "Another hit on one of our warehouses."
I tense, making a fist. "How bad?"
"Same as before. Everything destroyed, nothing taken."
Motherfucker.
"Was there a feather?"
"Spray-painted on the outside wall. Big as a fucking billboard this time."
"God damn it," I say too loud and shoot another glance at her bedroom door.
"But this time, we caught one."
My pulse quickens. "Wait. What? Is he alive?"
"For now."
"Where?"
"We moved him to the old packing facility. I'm staring at his fucking ass right now."
"Keep him alive. I'm on my way." I hang up and move quickly, gathering my clothes.
As I dress, I look back toward the bedroom again. I don't want to leave her. Not like this. Not after everything that happened between us. But this is family business. My business. I need answers.
I grab my shoes and slip them on.
I consider waking her, but what would I say? Hey, gotta run, need to torture some asshole who's trying to destroy my family?
Yeah, that would go over well.
Instead, I leave without a sound, and as I'm still in her hallway I text her.
Had to handle something urgent. I'll see you soon.
I then text Henry.
Need you back at Lyra's place. Now. Don't let her see you, but don't let her out of your sight either.
He replies as I get to my car.
On it, boss
The drive to the packing facility takes twenty minutes. Too long. By the time I arrive, dawn is breaking, casting a warm glow across the industrial district.
Shane is waiting for me at the back entrance, smoking a cigarette.
I get out and he tosses it to the floor and steps on it. "He's inside," he says, blowing out smoke.
"How's he looking?"
"Not good. Took a bullet to the shoulder when we caught him, lost a lot of blood."
"He say anything yet?"
Shane shakes his head. "Nothing useful. Just keeps laughing like he's the one who caught us."
I push past him into the dimly lit building, following the sound of low groans from the man tied to a metal chair in the back office.
Four of my men are standing guard over him.
He's bound, head hanging limply forward.
Blood seeps into the cracked concrete beneath the chair. His shirt is torn open, revealing a shoulder wound. His face is a mess, one eye swollen shut, lips split, nose broken.
I crouch in front of the chair and the guy lifts his head. He smiles.
Fucking smiles at me.
"You know who I am?" I ask.
"Killaney's pretty boy. Took you long enough."
"Who do you work for?"
He laughs through blood-stained teeth. "Work? No, no. I believe."
I backhand him hard enough that blood spatters across the floor. "Let's try again. Who are you working for?"
He spits a mouthful of blood at my feet. "Doesn't matter if I tell you. You're already dead. All of you."
I lean in. "Maybe. But you'll definitely be dead in the next hour if you don't start talking. The only question is how much it hurts before you get there."
He scoffs. "You think I'm afraid of pain? Of dying? We've all made our peace with that."
"We? Who's we?" I grab his injured shoulder, digging my thumb into the bullet wound.
He screams, body arching against the restraints.
"The feathers," I yell, twisting deeper. "What do they mean?"
"For us. The Morrigans," he gasps when I release the pressure. "They're for the Morrigan."
I exchange a glance with Shane, who shrugs, equally confused.
"Who the fuck is Morrigan?" I ask.
The man laughs a wet, guttural sound. "How can you be Irish and not know the Morrigan?" He wheezes. "The goddess of war. Death. And that's what's coming for you, your family. All of you."
I straighten, wiping blood from my hands onto a handkerchief. "A goddess? You're destroying my property for some mythological bullshit?"
"Not the goddess." He smiles with those blood-stained teeth. "Her servants. Her order. The ones who rise from the ashes your family leaves behind."
I hit him again, harder this time. "You think you're the first gang to try to move in on Killaney territory? Huh? You'll end up like all the others, dead and forgotten."
"You don't even remember me, do you?" Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth as he speaks.
I study his face, trying to place him among the hundreds of enemies I've made over the years. Nothing clicks.
"That's why you'll lose," he continues, voice growing weaker. "That's why you'll die."
I grab his throat, squeezing. "Who. Are. You."
"Four years ago," he chokes out, "you killed my brother. Shot him in the chest."
He's right; I have no idea what the hell he's talking about.
"He died," the man continues, "but I didn't. Let's just say the Killaney family has left a long trail of survivors and affected family members, and your day of reckoning is coming."
His breathing grows more labored, blood now flowing freely from his mouth. The shoulder wound looks worse, and redness is spreading across his chest.
"Who's really behind this?" I shake him. "Give me a name!"
His eye loses focus, gaze drifting past me to some point on the wall. "We are what they thought they buried," he says over and over.
Then his body goes slack.
I check his pulse. Nothing.
"Fuck!" I yell.
Shane steps forward. "Boss, we've got three more warehouses on the south side. Should we increase security?"
I hesitate. A million things running through my mind.
"Yeah, let's double the guards on all properties," I say finally. "And I want everything we can find on this Morrigan group. Every rumor, every link, every fucking scrap of intel."
"Should we tell Callum?" Shane asks.
I think of my brother, already drowning in our father's responsibilities. Already dealing with the fallout from the other attacks.
"No," I decide. "Like before. This stays between us for now until we can work it out."
Shane nods. "And the body?"
I look at the dead man, blood still dripping from his chair to the floor below. Another nameless, faceless enemy. Except this one had a grudge. This one was part of something bigger.
"Get rid of it," I say, "but find out who he was. I want every detail about his life, his associates, his fucking elementary school teacher if that's what it takes."
As they move to follow my orders, I step outside, needing air that doesn't smell like death.
The sun is fully up now, painting the industrial district in harsh light.
I pull out my phone, checking for messages from Henry about Lyra. Nothing yet. Which means she's still safe. Still sleeping, maybe, in the bed I left less than an hour ago.
For a moment, I let myself remember the softness of her skin, the way she arched beneath me, the sound of her voice when she finally broke and begged me to fill her.
Then I push it all aside.
I have a war to prepare for. One I didn't even see coming.
And this time, the enemy isn't after territory. They're after us.