Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The office clock reads nearly midnight when I finally set down my pen.
My silk blouse sticks to my skin in the summer heat, the air conditioning struggling against Boston's humidity.
I should go upstairs, shower off this endless day, slip between cool sheets naked like I do every night.
But the numbers won't balance themselves.
Temporary leadership of the Kavanagh empire sits on my shoulders like a weight I never asked for.
My father's stroke changed everything overnight.
Cillian handles the clean money with his wife Orla.
Eamon manages enforcement with that federal agent he's obsessed with.
But the real power—the web of fear and respect that keeps our enemies at bay—that falls to me now.
I unbutton my blouse at the throat, needing air. The silk slides against my heated skin as I lean back in father's leather chair. Even alone, I feel eyes on me. Conall's eyes.
He's been watching me differently since I returned from Oxford. Not like the little girl he used to teach to throw punches behind the garden shed. Like a woman he wants to fuck until I can't walk straight.
The thought makes my pussy clench with need.
I shouldn't think about him that way. Conall Devlin is my father's right hand, my protector, practically family. But the way he looks at me now—dark and hungry and barely leashed—makes me wet just remembering it.
A sharp crack shatters my dirty thoughts.
My body goes rigid. That wasn't wind or settling wood. Conall drilled awareness into me from childhood, disguised as games but deadly serious.
"Never trust the obvious path, princess."
"Always know where the weapons hide."
"When they come for you, fight dirty or die clean."
His voice in my memory sends shivers straight to my core. The way he said "princess" like it was both endearment and ownership, like he was already planning all the filthy things he'd do to me when I grew up.
I slip off my heels, bare feet silent on carpet. The security panel shows all green, but Conall taught me technology lies when someone skilled makes it lie.
Another sound. Gravel crunching under boots.
Moving to grandfather's portrait, I find the hidden switch that kills the office cameras. Thirty seconds of darkness before backup engages. Conall made me practice this until my body moved without thought.
The desk drawer slides open. My fingers close around father's loaded Walther, cold steel warming under my touch. The same hands that touch myself at night thinking of Conall's mouth between my thighs now handle death with steady precision.
Glass shatters somewhere in the house.
Professional work. They've cut through security glass in the sunroom rather than smashing windows like amateurs. Three men minimum, based on the pattern of sounds.
My phone buzzes once. Conall's emergency signal.
He knows. He's coming for me.
The thought of him rushing to save me sends liquid fire straight between my legs. My protector. My dark fantasy made flesh.
I position myself behind the oak desk, weapon ready. Let them come. Conall taught me patience along with violence, though he never taught me patience when it comes to wanting him.
Soft footsteps approach. Whispered plans for murder.
The doorknob turns.
Three men enter in black clothing, faces masked, moving with deadly coordination. They expect to find a terrified girl hiding behind daddy's desk.
They find empty air.
I wait until they pass my position, then rise like a nightmare behind them. The brass letter opener slides between the first man's ribs with a wet sound. His grunt alerts the others as he stumbles forward, blood bubbling from his lips.
"Behind you," the second man shouts, spinning toward me.
I'm already moving. The crystal decanter catches him across the temple, sending him reeling. Blood streams down his face, but he stays upright. These aren't street muscle—they're professionals sent to kill a Kavanagh.
The third man has a clear shot. His finger moves toward the trigger.
The office door explodes inward.
Conall enters like sin incarnate, moving with lethal grace that makes my pussy throb despite the danger. Two shots drop the marksman before he can fire. His gray eyes find mine across the chaos, checking for damage with one scorching look that burns straight through to my soul.
"Left," he commands, voice rough with barely leashed violence that makes me want to drop to my knees right here.
I pivot right as the wounded man tries to flank us.
We move together like lovers in a deadly dance—Conall covering my weaknesses while I protect his blind spots.
Twenty years of his training flows through me, but now I see it differently.
See how he shaped me, molded me, prepared me to be his perfect partner in violence and in bed.
Duck. Fire. Roll behind the sofa as bullets splinter wood above our heads.
Conall leaps the coffee table with feline grace, tackling the last attacker.
They crash into the bookshelf in a tangle of muscle and violence.
Watching him fight—all controlled power and lethal beauty—makes cream gather between my thighs.
I want those hands on my body, that strength pinning me down while he claims what's his.
A red dot appears on my chest.
Sniper. Outside window.
"Conall," I breathe, raising my weapon toward the threat.
He sees the laser sight painting my skin. His face transforms into something primitive and possessive, like he wants to kill every man who dares look at me.
Mine. The word blazes in his eyes as he throws himself between me and death.
The bullet meant for my heart punches through his shoulder instead. Blood blooms across his white shirt as momentum carries him into my arms. We crash to the floor together, his solid weight pressing me down behind the desk, and even bleeding he feels perfect against me.
"No." Terror and raw need flood my system as I catch him. His blood is hot and slick on my fingers, pulsing between them like the wetness between my legs when I think of him. "Stay with me."
He struggles to focus through the pain, gray eyes burning into mine with an intensity that makes my nipples peak beneath my torn blouse. "Not going anywhere, princess."
The endearment breaks something loose in my chest. Twenty years of him calling me princess while I fantasized about him calling me his dirty girl instead.
"Don't you dare leave me, Conall Devlin." I press both palms against his wound, feeling his heartbeat against my skin, strong and steady like I imagine his cock would be inside me. "I won't let you."
His mouth curves despite the pain. "Bossy little thing. Bet you're bossy in bed too."
Heat floods my cheeks at his crude words. "Your bossy little thing," I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flare with dark hunger despite the blood loss. "Yeah. Mine. Every fucking inch of you."
The possessive rasp in his voice makes my pussy clench so hard I gasp. Even bleeding, even dying, he affects me like no other man ever could or ever will.
"Medical kit," he manages, his free hand sliding down to grip my hip possessively. "Bar cabinet."
I tear my silk blouse, wadding the expensive fabric against his wound. The movement makes my bra-clad breasts press against his chest, and I feel his sharp intake of breath that has nothing to do with pain.
"Fuck, Saoirse," he groans. "Even now you make me hard."
I glance down and see he's telling the truth. Even bleeding, even in mortal danger, his cock strains against his pants. The knowledge that I affect him this much makes me bold.
"Good," I whisper against his ear, my lips brushing his skin. "Because I'm so wet for you right now I'm soaking through my panties."
His hand tightens on my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Christ. You're going to kill me before the bullet does."
"Look at me." I cup his face with bloody hands, my thumb tracing his lower lip. "Focus on me and what you're going to do to me when you heal."
His eyes drift closed.
"Tell me," I demand, voice husky with need. "Tell me how you're going to fuck me."
The crude command snaps his attention back. Gray eyes lock onto mine with blazing intensity.
"Going to spread you wide and taste every inch," he rasps. "Make you come on my tongue until you scream my name. Then I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll feel me for days."
Fire races through my blood at his filthy promise. My pussy throbs, aching and empty, needing him to fill me.
"Tell me more," I breathe, keeping him conscious with dirty talk. "Tell me about that night in the garden when I was eighteen. What did you really want to do to me?"
His mouth quirks despite the pain. "You remember."
"Every second." My hands maintain pressure while I bare my soul. "You pulled away so fast I thought I disgusted you."
"Disgusted?" His laugh turns rough. "Princess, you nearly brought me to my knees. Eighteen years old in that little white dress, braless, your nipples hard from the cold air."
My breath catches. I hadn't realized he'd noticed.
"I wanted to push you against that garden wall and rip that dress off you," he continues, voice growing raw with need despite his injury. "Wanted to bury my face between your thighs and make you come until you couldn't stand. Then fuck you against the stone until you knew who you belonged to."
"I wouldn't have said no," I whisper, my voice thick with arousal.
"I know. That's what made it so fucking hard to walk away. You would have let me claim you right there, wouldn't you?"
"Yes." The admission falls from my lips without shame. "I've wanted you since I was old enough to understand what wanting meant."
His hand slides from my hip to cup my ass, squeezing possessively. "And now?"
"Now I'm going to climb on top of you the second you're healed and ride you until we both forget our own names."
He groans, his cock jerking against his pants at my crude promise. "Fucking hell, Saoirse. The things I'm going to do to you."
The office door bursts open. Cillian rushes in with security, weapons drawn. He stops short at the sight of us—me straddling Conall's hips while pressing bloody silk to his shoulder, his hand gripping my ass, both of us breathing hard despite the crisis.
"Medic," Cillian barks, his face carefully blank at our compromising position. "Now."
Dr. Moran appears, but I don't move from Conall's body. Can't move. The adrenaline and arousal make everything sharper—his scent, his heat, the way his fingers dig into my flesh like he never wants to let me go.
"He saved my life," I tell my brother, not caring that my torn blouse reveals my lace bra or that Conall's hand still grips my ass possessively.
"He always will," Cillian replies grimly.
As the doctor works on Conall's shoulder, I study the man who's owned my heart and body since childhood, even if he's never claimed either. Blood loss has carved new lines around his eyes, but his gaze burns into me. Promising. Threatening. Mine.
"The sniper?" I ask.
"Dead," Eamon announces from the doorway, carefully not looking at Conall's hand on my ass. "Roof across the street."
Three professionals. A coordinated assault while father lies helpless upstairs. Someone wants me eliminated.
"Who knew my schedule?" I demand.
Cillian's face darkens. "We'll find out."
Conall grips my thigh as they prepare to move him, his thumb stroking dangerously close to the edge of my panties. "Don't trust anyone. Not until we know who's behind this."
"I won't." I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. "Just focus on healing so you can finish what you started. I'll be waiting in my bed. Naked."
His eyes flare with dark promise despite the pain medication Dr. Moran administered. "Count on it, princess. I'm going to ruin you for any other man."
"I'm already ruined," I whisper back. "Have been since I was eighteen and you kissed me like you wanted to devour me whole."
They wheel him toward the medical wing while I stand in the ruins of father's office. My blouse hangs open, revealing the lace bra beneath. Blood stains my skirt. My panties are soaked with arousal. But I'm alive.
And Conall Devlin just promised to claim me the moment he heals.
"Saoirse." Cillian approaches carefully, noting my disheveled state. "You handled yourself well."
I look at the weapon still gripped in my hand, then at the blood on carpet where he fell protecting me. Where he confessed wanting to fuck me against a garden wall since I turned eighteen.
"He trained me well," I say, adjusting my torn blouse with shaking hands. "For everything."
"I can see that." Cillian's tone stays carefully neutral. "Perhaps you should shower and rest. It's been a long night."
Rest. As if I could sleep knowing Conall lies just down the hall, probably hard and aching for me even while recovering from a gunshot wound.
Someone just declared war on the Kavanagh family. But all I can think about is Conall's filthy promises and the heat between my thighs that only he can satisfy.
Tomorrow brings enemies and consequences.
Tonight, I learned what it means to almost lose the man I belong to—and exactly what I'm going to do to him when he's mine.