Chapter 8
Declan
The warehouse is still burning when I arrive.
Flames lick through the collapsed roof, orange and vicious against the predawn dark.
The air tastes like chemicals and char. Cillian stands near what used to be the loading dock with his hands in his pockets, watching the fire crews work.
His face gives nothing away, but I know that expression—the careful blankness that means he's calculating damage, losses, and retaliation.
I move to his side and stop. Neither of us speaks.
"How bad?" I ask.
"Three million in product. Two men hospitalized with burns." His voice is flat. "Could've been worse."
"Sullivans?"
"Intel says yes." He glances at me, almost rolling his eyes. "Payback. They feel disrespected."
I watch the flames. The warehouse is a shell now, brick walls standing, but everything inside gutted. Smoke billows thick and black into the sky.
This isn’t the first hit. It’s the fourth in two weeks, each progressively worse.
Cillian pulls out his phone and swipes through something. "Torched shipment on the docks. Hijacked truck on the interstate. Our accountant's car blown up in his driveway—he wasn't in it, but the message was clear." He pockets the phone. "They're escalating."
"What's the plan?"
"Ronan's working the political angle. Lorcan's gathering intel on their operations. I need you to tighten security." He turns to face me fully. "Starting with personal protection. All family members, and our wives.”
The word wives hits differently now. I have a wife. Saoirse is my wife, and the Sullivans know it because their intel is as good as ours.
"I honestly don’t know what they’ll do next. I’m surprised by this level of vitriol. But we have to try to anticipate and take precautions. They may come at us through the women," Cillian continues. “Nora's already got a full detail. Saoirse needs the same."
My jaw tightens. "She's covered, but I’ll double her protection.” Fuck, I’ll triple it.
The warehouse groans behind us, a section of wall collapsing inward with a roar of brick and flame. The heat washes over us in a wave.
"These fuckers want a war," I say.
Cillian's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. "They’re about to get one."
The house is quiet when I get back.
I check the security feed out of habit—cameras showing the street, the alley, the fire escape. Corcoran's post is visible on the corner, his silhouette unmistakable. I pull out my phone and text him.
Double rotation. No gaps. Report anything unusual.
His reply comes back fast.
Copy
I strip off my jacket and toss it over a chair. The smell of smoke clings to my clothes, my hair, my skin. I head for the shower, but halfway up the stairs, I hear movement in the kitchen.
Saoirse.
I change direction and find her at the stove, poking at something in a pan with a wooden spoon.
She's wearing one of the new blouses from the boutique and jeans that actually fit her, and her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail.
The cat sits on the counter beside her, watching her cook with the focused intensity of a predator tracking prey.
She glances up when I enter. "You smell like a bonfire."
"Warehouse fire."
Her eyes widen. "Are you hurt?"
The question catches me off guard. Not the words—the tone. Concern. Actual concern, not polite inquiry.
"No. I wasn't inside."
She nods and turns back to the stove. "I'm making eggs. They're probably terrible."
I move closer and peer into the pan. The eggs are scrambled, overcooked, and stuck to the bottom. "They look fine."
She stirs them with more force than necessary. "I can't cook. Never learned."
"You're doing a great job.”
She snorts. "Liar."
I lean against the counter and cross my arms. The cat's tail swishes once, then settles. Saoirse plates the eggs—one for her, one for me—and slides mine across the counter.
I take a bite. They're rubbery and oversalted, and I eat them without complaint.
She watches me, her expression skeptical. "You don't have to eat them."
"I'm eating them."
"You're being polite."
"I don't do polite."
Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. "You're doing it right now."
I set the fork down and hold her gaze. "If I didn't want to eat your eggs, I wouldn't eat them. I want to eat them."
She blinks. Confusion crosses her face, then something else. She looks away and picks up her own fork.
We eat in silence. The cat jumps down from the counter and winds around Saoirse's ankles, purring loud enough to hear across the room.
"You’ve been feeding her," I say.
"You're the one who keeps buying cat food."
"She's a stray."
"She's your cat."
"I don't have a cat."
"You named her."
I pause mid-bite. "I didn't name her."
"What do you call her?"
"Cat."
Saoirse laughs. The sound is short and surprised, like it escaped without permission. Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes go wide.
I freeze.
That laugh. The way it broke free, unguarded and genuine. The way her whole face changed—softened, brightened, became something I didn't know a face could be.
I want to make her laugh again. The thought lands like a punch. I've wanted things before—control, respect, victory. I've never wanted to make someone laugh.
She drops her hand and clears her throat. "Sorry. It's just—Cat. Very creative."
"It's functional."
"It's lazy."
"Fine. What would you name her?"
She tilts her head, considering. The cat rubs against her shin and meows. Saoirse crouches and scratches behind her ears.
"Hope," she says.
"Why Hope?"
"Because she's a scrapper. Against the odds, she’s a survivor.” Saoirse straightens.
It seems fitting, so I nod. "Hope it is."
Her smile blooms, and I file it away—another piece of her I want to keep.
We finish eating. She washes the dishes without being asked, and I dry them without offering. The rhythm is easy, domestic in a way I’ve never had before.
“I want you to tell me something.” I keep my voice level, casual.
She tenses. "What?"
"The foster homes you lived in. There were a lot.”
Her hands are still in the soapy water. She doesn't answer right away. Then she pulls the plug and watches the water drain.
"Fourteen."
The number sits between us.
"Why so many?"
She dries her hands on a towel. "Some didn't want me. Some couldn't afford me. Some—" She stops. Her jaw tightens. "Some weren't safe. I ran away from the last one and never went back into the system.”
I don't push. I wait.
“By the time I turned eighteen and aged out, almost a year ago,” she continues, "I'd been on the streets for a few years anyway.”
Fuck. “That sounds difficult, especially living on the streets.” Understatement. It sounds like a living hell.
“In some ways it was easier than the foster placements."
"Easier how?"
"Nobody pretended to care."
The bluntness of it guts me. I grip the counter's edge hard enough my knuckles go white.
She glances at me. "You asked."
"I did."
She studies my face, then nods. "The streets aren't that bad, honestly. You learn to manage. Find spots to sleep. Know where the shelters are. Which cops to avoid. Which neighborhoods are safe at which hours." She shrugs. "It's a system. You just have to learn it."
"You shouldn't have had to."
"Maybe not. But I did." She folds the towel and sets it on the counter. "Everyone does what they have to do to survive."
That explains the packed duffel bag. The food stash.
According to Corcoran's reports, her nightly walks are getting shorter. When I snooped this morning, I noticed new clothes hanging in her closet and folded in the dresser instead of stuffed in her go bag. Small progress, but progress.
“I need you home at night now," I say.
She freezes. "What?"
"You leave every night. Walk for hours. I need you to stop. It’s no longer safe.”
Her eyes narrow. "You're spying on me."
"I have men watching you. For your safety. That's not the same as spying."
"It's exactly the same."
She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes in a glare.
"I'm not trying to stifle you or trap you," I say. "I'm trying to keep you safe.”
"Why?"
The question is sharp, direct. She's not asking rhetorically. She wants an answer.
I want to tell her it’s because I care about her. I want to say it aloud, but as her words from moments ago ring through my head—nobody pretended to care—I’m pretty sure she won’t believe me. Not yet.
So, instead I say, "Because you're my wife."