Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Conall's phone rings as I enter my father's study. He answers without looking up from the maps spread across the mahogany desk.
"Devlin." His voice turns sharp. "How many vehicles?"
I freeze in the doorway. The tension in his shoulders screams danger.
"Keep them there. Wait for me." He hangs up, gray eyes meeting mine. "The Morettis just went after our northern warehouse."
My blood chills. "Casualties?"
"None yet. But they're claiming territory, taking inventory of what's ours."
He stands behind the desk where I once pressed myself against him three years ago, desperate and wanting. Where his hands tangled in my hair and his mouth tasted like whiskey and sin. Where footsteps in the hall broke us apart before we could finish what we started.
I push the memory down and move to the wall map. "Show me."
Conall joins me, his sleeve brushing mine as he points to the northern borders. Every nerve ending sparks at the contact.
"Here. Three trucks, men with guns. They chose well—that warehouse generates two million annually."
"What's the standard response?"
"Diplomatic first. Meet with their underboss, negotiate new boundaries." His finger traces shipping routes while I try not to think about those same hands on my skin. "Maybe offer a small concession to keep the peace."
"That's what my father would do?"
"Yes."
I study the map, noting the Moretti territories spreading like cancer through our northern borders. They're testing us. Testing me.
"Burn theirs," I say.
Conall goes still. "What?"
"Their warehouse on Atlantic Avenue. Burn it." I turn to face him, close enough to see his pupils dilate. "Tonight."
"Saoirse, that's?—"
"A message. They touched our territory. We touch theirs. Hard."
His breathing grows shallow. Something hungry and dangerous flickers in his eyes as he watches me.
"That warehouse employs forty people."
"Give them two hours to evacuate. Then burn it to the ground."
The air between us crackles. He searches my face for hesitation, finding none.
"You're not the same woman who left for Oxford."
Heat pools low in my belly at the way he says 'woman.' Like he's finally seeing me as one.
"I was never weak."
"No," he says, voice rough. "You weren't."
The memory crashes over me.
Christmas break, three years ago. I'd found him here, working late, firelight painting gold across his sharp features. The house slept around us as I entered without invitation.
"Whiskey?" He'd gestured to the bottle on the desk.
"I'm twenty-three, not fifteen."
"Old enough to make dangerous choices."
When I moved closer, close enough to smell sandalwood and leather, his control had fractured. His hands framed my face, mouth claiming mine with years of suppressed hunger.
He'd tasted like whiskey and home and everything I'd ever wanted. His teeth grazed my throat as he pressed me against this very desk, his hard length evident through his trousers.
"Fuck, Saoirse," he'd groaned, hands sliding under my sweater to cup my breasts. His thumbs found my nipples through lace, making me gasp into his mouth.
I'd ground against him, desperate for friction, for more. His mouth moved to my neck, sucking hard enough to mark while his fingers worked my bra open.
"I've wanted you for years," he'd confessed against my throat, one hand sliding up my thigh, under my skirt.
When his fingers found the edge of my underwear, I'd nearly sobbed with need. Then footsteps echoed in the hallway.
We'd sprung apart, both breathing hard, my body aching for what we'd almost done.
"This can't happen," he'd whispered, eyes dark with want.
"Why not?"
"You know why."
I'd left for Oxford the next morning, wet and wanting, taking the memory with me.
Now he watches me with that same hunger, but sharper. Darker.
"Make the call," I say.
He reaches for his phone, eyes never leaving mine. "You understand the consequences?"
"Do you think I'm afraid of consequences?"
His mouth curves in something that isn't quite a smile. "No. I think you're exactly your father's daughter."
The way he says it makes heat race through my veins. Not an insult. A recognition.
He dials, voice calm as he orders the warehouse burned. Professional. Efficient. Deadly. When he hangs up, the space between us hums with electricity.
"It's done."
"Good."
We stand inches apart, the weight of violence and want crackling between us. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, then returns to my eyes.
"Twenty years I've watched you grow up," he says. "Twenty years of keeping my distance."
"And now?"
He steps closer, close enough that I feel his body heat. "Now you're ordering warehouse hits like you were born to it."
"Does that bother you?"
"It should." His hand lifts, fingers grazing my cheek. "It doesn't."
My pulse hammers against my throat. "What does that make you?"
"Fucked." His thumb traces my lower lip. "Completely fucked."
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Twenty years of loyalty warring with desire, duty battling need.
"Conall."
"Your father trusted me to protect you. To keep you safe." His voice turns rough. "Not to want you like this."
"My father isn't here."
"When he returns?—"
"We'll handle that then."
His control shatters. I see it happen, feel it in the tremor of his hand against my skin. The careful distance he's maintained for years dissolving like smoke.
"You're going to destroy me," he whispers.
"I'm counting on it."
When his mouth crashes against mine, I taste whiskey and want and years of suppressed hunger. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as I press against him. The maps crinkle beneath us as he lifts me onto the desk, settling between my thighs.
This time, no footsteps interrupt us.
This time, neither of us plans to stop.
His mouth moves to my throat, teeth scraping sensitive skin. "Tell me to stop."
"Never."
He groans against my pulse, hands gripping my hips, pulling me tighter against his hard length. "Saoirse."
"I've wanted this since I was eighteen."
"Christ." His forehead drops to mine. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
His eyes burn into mine, all pretense stripped away. "You want to know what you do to me? You walk into a room and I can't think straight. You order a warehouse burned and all I can think about is how badly I want to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you scream my name."
Heat explodes between my legs at his words. My underwear grows damp as I imagine exactly that. "Then do it."
"If I start, I won't stop."
"Good."
He claims my mouth again, harder this time, all restraint gone. His hands slide under my blouse, fingers finding the edge of my bra. When his thumbs brush my nipples through the lace, I arch into him with a gasp.
"You're so responsive," he growls against my lips. "I wonder how wet you are for me."
My breath catches as his hand slides up my thigh, under my skirt. His fingers trace the edge of my underwear, making me whimper.
"Tell me you want this," he demands.
"I want this. I want you." The admission tears from my throat.
His fingers slip beneath the lace, finding me slick and ready. "Fuck, you're soaked."
I cry out as he strokes me, my hips bucking against his hand. Years of fantasy pale against the reality of his touch.
"That's it," he murmurs, adding pressure. "Let me hear you."
The door could open. My father could return. None of it matters.
Twenty years of waiting burns away as he works me closer to the edge, his mouth swallowing my moans.