Chapter 1 – Two Days Later
AISLYNN
TWO DAYS LATER
The biting wind whipped at my flushed, wet cheeks as I stormed out of my office building in the River North Art District (locally known as RiNo).
My firm, Sketch, had a reputation for being innovative and thinking outside the box.
It prided itself on the young, dynamic vibe of the staff, mixed with the more established and respected partners.
My mentor was the firm’s owner, Richard Sketch.
He was forty-five, motivated, world-renowned, and at the top of his field.
He was also a sexual predator.
Hitching my work bag up onto my shoulder, I noticed the angry, red mark on my wrist where my boss had just tried to pin me down onto his desk.
“Fuck,” I hissed, the word almost as cutting as the freezing, wintry air.
I’d spent the last fifteen minutes physically fighting off Richard Sketch.
Fifteen minutes of his weight crushing me while his hands slid over my body, pressing into my skin with sickening force.
Eventually, I’d driven my knee up, connecting with a dull thud that had no doubt just ended my career before it had even begun.
After fleeing the room, I’d run the gauntlet of the main office, enduring the pitying looks of the women, and their knowing glances—some of them victim’s glances—darting away.
Men suddenly became fascinated with their keyboards, all while my pleas and screams still echoed through the walls, cries for help they’d conveniently ignored because they were all too terrified for their jobs.
It seemed I was surrounded by little men with little courage and even littler morals.
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, willing myself to feel something real instead of the numbness invading my body.
I focused on the harsh, icy wind so cold on my face that it burned.
The fresh scent of the air, thick with the promise of more snow.
And the sounds of the street filled with music, along with the blaring of horns and the whirring of engines.
The wind howled between buildings like it shared my pain and promised my revenge.
The loud trilling of my cell phone startled me.
I looked down and rummaged through my bag, peering down at it through misty eyes, not recognizing the number.
Warning bells started to ring, and I chewed my bottom lip, wondering if it was somebody from the office telling me to go back and get my shit because I was fired.
For a split second, I felt like throwing the thing as far as my strength allowed, but I wasn’t a girl who buried her head in the sand.
With a resigned sigh, I swiped to answer, then held the cell to my ear, my voice hoarse as I murmured, “Aislynn O’Shea.”
A beat of silence ensued, and then a deep, gravelly voice demanded, “You outside your office?”
Pressing my fingers to my throbbing temple, I shook my head. “Who’s this?”
A growl filled my ears, the vibration of it hitting me square in the chest. “I’m on my way. Don’t fuckin’ move.”
My eyebrows pulled together. “But—”
“Dubheasa,” he rasped. “What did I just say? Don’t fuckin’ move.”
Every cell in my body froze except for my heart, which began to thud a little harder as it leaped so high into my throat that I almost choked on it.
Dubheasa was the Irish phrase for dark beauty, and my athair’s pet name for me. My da had called me his Dubheasa every day for as far back as I could remember. It was also the last word he said to me before he died.
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but the line had gone dead. My gut, already fine-tuned to two decades of O’Shea family chaos, knew the voice on the end of the phone.
But how could it be? The last time I saw him, I’d told him he wasn’t good enough for me and then strutted away.
I scanned the street, not seeing any sign of a Harley, but I could sense him, like an impending storm humming through the ether, threatening but still exhilaratingly beautiful in its danger.
That was when I heard it.
The growl of tailpipes in the distance.
My insides came to life, and the compulsion to run was overwhelming. Maybe I should have. Perhaps turning and fleeing would have saved me from an unknown fate that all my instincts screamed would be my undoing, but I had an even more compelling desire to stay purely out of curiosity.
The faint growl of tailpipes grew louder with every second that passed, and my heart beat harder and faster.
Even though it wasn’t even five yet, the sky was dark, as was the way in December in Colorado, so when I finally caught a glimpse of the three Harleys, I could make out their shapes, but not much else.
The bikes began to slow on their approach.
Their single headlights cut beams of light through the darkness, illuminating the wet sidewalk along with my frozen form.
All three bikers wore helmets, but there was no confusing which one was Pagan.
Although the temperatures were freezing, he didn’t wear a scarf or gloves like the two riders flanking him.
The sugar skull tattoo inked into his throat, and the muscled bulk of his steely arms that rippled even under leather, told me exactly who he was.
Pagan pulled up beside me and idled his bike. One heavy-booted foot hit the ground, and he sat back, taking off his helmet.
Black eyes locked with mine, and my breath caught in my throat as he held his hand out toward me and grated out, “Get on.”
I blinked.
“Get... on.. the fuckin’... bike,” he ordered, the shadows flitting across his face so dark that he looked almost demonic.
The two brothers riding with him cut their engines and dismounted. The instant they removed their helmets, I recognized one as Bootneck, Pagan’s SAA. I’d never seen the other guy, but he was big, good-looking, and built, with long, messy blond hair.
Pagan jerked his chin toward my office building, his eyes never leaving mine. “Make sure he knows what’ll happen the next time he touches what belongs to me.”
The thrill of his words made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and without a thought, I thrust my arm out and grabbed Pagan’s hand.
His fingers were scalding even though he didn’t wear gloves, and it had snowed. With a sharp tug, he pulled me close, his lips skimming the top of my head, not in a kiss exactly, but I felt branded all the same.
“Smart,” he muttered, his breath warm against my skin.
I threw a leg over his bike, lining myself up until I was flush against his back while he shoved his helmet back on. Leaning down, he rummaged in his saddle bag, then reached behind to hand me a scarf and a pair of men’s leather gloves, ordering, “Put these on.”
My heart fluttered because something in the gesture hit me deep inside, penetrating a place that had lain dormant since the day my da died.
I’d been left feeling as if I were dangling over the edge of a cliff with nothing to grab onto that could stop me from falling.
My daddy was always my safety, and since he’d been gone, I’d felt raw and exposed.
Until now.
I wrapped the scarf around my neck and slipped on the gloves before pressing my chest to Pagan’s back and resting my fingers against his rock-hard stomach.
Pagan gunned the engine, and a shockwave went through my body, making me lock my fingers together and hold on tight. His boot came up, and he took off with the growl of the bike filling my ears and the cold, icy breeze, thick with the scent of snow, whipping my face.
Turning my face, I rested my cheek on his back, drinking in the heat radiating from his body.
I couldn’t work out how he stayed so warm; it was unnatural in a way.
The air was frigid with cold, which was exacerbated by the thin blanket of snow covering the ground, but Pagan was like a furnace burning hot.
He weaved his bike through the heavy city in such a controlled way that even though the roads were covered in snow and ice, I trusted him implicitly. The city lights glittered in a haze, and I found myself grinning against the wind while a wild, kinetic energy thrummed through my blood.
We passed Coors Field and took a sharp left onto 20th Street before flying past King Soopers toward the skate park. More familiar landmarks went by, and it was then that I realized Pagan was heading for my apartment building on Boulder Street.
He parked his Harley at the curb, the growl of the engine turning to a purr as it idled. The bike silenced as he cut the engine, and he removed his helmet before twisting his body and holding out his hand for me to take as I eased myself off.
He kicked the stand on with a flick of his boot and dismounted carefully, leaving his bike at a slight angle before turning toward me. His thumb and pointer finger gently pinched my chin, and he angled my face up and asked, “Did he hurt you?”
My heart flipped.
“How do you know where I live?” I asked, confusion lacing my tone.
“Aislynn, did he hurt you?” Pagan repeated.
Although his voice was level, I could sense the anger simmering underneath.
“No. Not really,” I replied.
He took my fingers and pushed the glove down to expose my wrist. “He left a mark.”
I pulled away and cradled my hand. “I’ll be okay. Look, Pagan. I don’t know why you’re here, especially after what happened the last time I saw you, but I’m okay.”
He turned his back on me and reached inside his thick, fur-lined leather jacket for his phone. When he spoke, it was in hushed tones.
“He hurt her wrist, so pay that forward. When that’s done, make sure he knows whatever happens to her will happen to him tenfold. Tell him, next time he touches her, he’ll lose his hands.”
My heart lurched.
Sweet Jesus.
Pagan ended the call without another word, not looking at me as he slipped his phone back into his jacket. I studied the lines of his face, taking note of the tension in his jaw and the lines of exhaustion creasing his eyes.
He twisted toward me and held his hand out. “Come on.”