Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
I slam my phone down so hard the hotel nightstand shakes. Three missed calls from Mother, two from Cillian, and one text that makes my blood run cold: Come home. Now. Dad's in hospital.
The flight from London to Boston passes in a blur of panic and whiskey. By the time I reach the family estate, my hands shake and my designer dress clings to skin damp with fear-sweat.
"Miss Saoirse." Connor opens the front door before I can knock. His face tells me everything—this is bad. Very bad.
"Where is everyone?"
"Conference room. They're waiting."
I walk through halls lined with family portraits, each Kavanagh patriarch staring down with judgment. Seven years I've been free of this house, this life. Seven years building something clean and academic and mine.
Now I'm back.
The conference room door stands open. Inside, my family sits around the mahogany table that's witnessed decades of decisions both legal and decidedly not.
Mother occupies her usual chair, spine rigid, hands folded.
Cillian hunches over documents, shoulders carrying weight he never wanted. Eamon paces like a caged wolf.
And Conall?—
Christ. Conall Devlin stands at the head of the table like he owns it, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed as he leans over security maps.
The sight of him hits me like a physical blow.
Broader than I remember. Harder. Those gray eyes that used to watch me with careful distance now hold authority that makes my knees weak.
I haven't seen him in two years. Haven't thought about him in... who am I kidding? I think about him every night.
"How bad?" I ask, voice steadier than my pulse.
Everyone turns. Cillian's face shows relief. Eamon stops prowling. Mother's expression reveals nothing.
But Conall's eyes rake over me from head to toe—taking in my rumpled travel clothes, my wild hair, the way I'm breathing too fast. Something dark and possessive flickers across his features before he schools them blank.
"Stroke," Cillian says. "Major one. Right side paralysis, speech problems. He's alive but..."
"But not leading anything soon," I finish.
"The vultures are already circling," Eamon growls. "Moretti called twice. The Russians are asking questions."
I move toward the table, hyperaware of Conall's presence. He smells like expensive cologne and danger, and when I pass close enough to feel his body heat, my nipples tighten against my bra.
Inappropriate doesn't begin to cover it.
"What's our immediate exposure?" I ask, trying to focus on anything but the way his jaw clenches when I get near.
Conall spreads photos across the table. "Three rival families testing boundaries. Two union negotiations stalled. And the Donovan territory grab we've been planning—they know we're vulnerable."
His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher. When he points to locations on the map, I watch his hands and remember things I shouldn't. Like how those fingers felt in my hair during one stolen kiss when I was twenty-one and stupid.
"The Morettis will hit our southern operations first," I say, forcing my brain to function. "It's furthest from our stronghold, easiest to take without direct war."
Everyone stares. Mother raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"The shipping routes there generate thirty percent of our legitimate revenue," I continue, warming up despite their shock. "Losing them would force us to negotiate from weakness."
"How do you know our revenue breakdowns?" Cillian asks.
I shrug. "I have an economics PhD and seven years of curiosity. You think I never wondered how this family affords three houses and a yacht?"
Eamon laughs—sharp and surprised. "She's been studying us."
"Someone had to." I lean over the map, inadvertently brushing against Conall's arm. The contact sends electricity straight to my core. "The Russians won't wait long either. They've wanted access to our shipping for years."
Conall's hand stills on the table. "You're right. Forty-eight hours max before they make moves."
The approval in his voice does dangerous things to my stomach. I've spent years earning respect in academic circles, but one word from him matters more than tenure ever could.
"What about the university?" Mother asks. "Your research position?"
My carefully constructed life in England. Safe lectures and boring conferences and absolutely no one trying to kill me for my last name.
"I'm staying," I hear myself say.
"Saoirse—"
"No." I cut Cillian off. "I'm not running back to Oxford while our family burns. You need someone who understands both sides—the legitimate businesses and what funds them."
Conall's eyes meet mine across the table.
The look that passes between us is pure heat—pride and desire and something darker that makes me want to arch my back like a cat in heat.
He sees me. Not the protected daughter or the academic, but the woman who belongs in this room, who can handle this world.
Who wants him with a desperation that borders on insanity.
"The board meeting is tomorrow," Mother says. "Investors need reassurance."
"I'll handle it," Cillian decides.
"What about Uncle Patrick?" Eamon asks. "The Irish connections won't stay loyal without answers."
"I'll call him," Conall offers, and something in his tone makes my pulse spike. "Family business."
The way he says family—like I'm part of what he protects—sends heat flooding between my thighs.
"Right." Cillian closes his folder. "Conall, threat assessments on all rivals. Eamon, security review. Mother, keep our allies calm."
"And me?" I ask.
"You make sure we don't hemorrhage money while we're fighting fires." His smile is tired. "Think you can handle that?"
"I can handle whatever you need."
The words come out breathier than intended. Conall's nostrils flare like he caught my scent.
As the meeting breaks up, he approaches my chair. "I'm driving you home."
"I can call a cab?—"
"No." The command in his voice makes my core clench. "Things are different now. You need protection."
"From who?"
His gray eyes turn predatory. "Everyone who thinks a Kavanagh daughter makes perfect leverage."
The truth hits like ice water. By staying, I've painted a target on my back. The anonymity that kept me safe is gone.
"I can take care of myself," I say, though we both know it's a lie.
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat, to smell the whiskey on his breath.
"You're mine to protect now," he says low enough that only I hear. "Don't fight me on this."
Mine. The possessive word sends liquid heat straight to my core.
"Is that an order?"
His mouth curves in something too dark to be a smile. "It's a promise."
Before I can respond, he's moving away, leaving me breathless and aching and completely screwed.
Because Conall Devlin was dangerous enough when he kept his distance.
Now he's claiming me as his responsibility.
And God help me, I want to be claimed.