Prologue #2
The walls are lined with oil paintings—landscapes mostly, the wild Irish countryside rendered in dark greens and moody grays.
A massive fireplace dominates one wall, the flames casting dancing shadows across the Persian rug.
This is old money meets new power.
The kind of wealth that's been built and rebuilt and built again, each generation adding another layer to the fortress.
The conversation flows easily—Doran and Aleksandr discussing business in vague terms that tell me absolutely nothing, Rev and Greer talking about some charity gala coming up next month.
I eat and nod and laugh in the right places, but my mind keeps drifting.
The salmon is perfect.
Flaky and rich, dressed in a dill cream sauce that melts on my tongue.
I barely taste it.
Tomorrow. Nine sharp.
"The Dublin Fashion Council wants to feature you in their fall showcase," Greer says to me, and I nearly choke on my wine.
"I'm sorry—what?"
"They've been watching your work. The structured pieces from the winter line caught their attention." She takes a delicate bite of her salmon, completely unbothered by the bomb she just dropped. "I told them you'd consider it."
"You told them I'd—" I set down my fork before I drop it. "Greer. That's... that's one of the most prestigious showcases in Europe."
"I'm aware."
"They feature designers with decades of experience. Household names."
"And emerging talent, when that talent is worth featuring." Her eyes meet mine across the table. "Are you not worth featuring, Dalla?"
It's a test. Everything with Greer is a test.
"I am," I say, and I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake.
She nods once. "Good. We'll discuss the details after I've seen your portfolio."
I pick up my fork again.
My hand trembles slightly, and I grip the silver tight to steady it.
What if she hates everything?
What if she was wrong about me from the start?
What if I've been fooling myself for five years, playing designer when I should have stayed in med school like my parents wanted, followed the safe path, the predictable path—
"Dalla."
I blink.
Greer is watching me, her wine glass paused halfway to her lips. "Sorry?"
"I asked about your spring line sketches. The ones you sent last month."
Right. Work. Safe territory.
"We've moved three of them into development. The asymmetrical coat is testing well with the focus groups, and the draped blouse is already getting interest from buyers."
Greer nods slowly. "And the others?"
"Still refining."
"Mm." She sets down her glass. "You're too careful with them."
The words hit like a slap. "I—what?"
"You're too careful. You sand down the edges until they're safe. Marketable." She says the word like it tastes sour. "But the raw versions—the first sketches you send me, before you second-guess yourself—those have fire. Those have vision."
I don't know what to say. My throat feels tight.
"Tomorrow," Greer continues, "I want to see the work you're afraid to show me. The pieces you think are too strange. Too bold. Too you." Her eyes hold mine. "Can you do that?"
I swallow hard. "Yes."
"Good."
She returns to her wine, and the conversation moves on, but I can barely breathe.
The pieces I'm afraid to show her.
The collection I brought—the personal one, the one that feels like my own bones and blood—suddenly feels like both a gift and a grenade.
After dinner, I escape to the gardens.
The evening air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of jasmine and fresh-cut grass.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I follow a winding path away from the house, past sculpted hedges and stone benches, toward the soft golden glow of the stables in the distance.
I need to breathe.
I need to think.
I need to stop my heart from trying to beat out of my chest.
Greer's words keep circling in my head.
Too careful. You sand down the edges.
She's right. The worst part is I know she's right.
Every time I create something that feels truly mine, I hear the voices.
My mother asking why I couldn't just be happy with a stable career.
My father's silent disappointment when I dropped out of med school.
The whispers at the compound—Runes’ daughter, the one who thinks she's too good for the club, running off to play fashion designer.
So I soften. I adjust. I make myself palatable.
But tomorrow, Greer wants the unsoftened version. The real one.
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating.
And—
I stop walking.
Someone is watching me.
I feel it before I see him—that prickle at the back of my neck, the animal awareness of being observed.
My father's daughter.
A lifetime of growing up surrounded by men who notice everything has given me instincts I can't quite explain.
I turn slowly, scanning the shadows.
He's standing near the corner of the stable, half-hidden in the darkness where the light from the windows doesn't quite reach.
Tall. Broad shoulders.
A stillness that feels deliberate, like a predator who doesn't need to move because he knows exactly where his prey will go.
My breath catches.
I can't see his face clearly—just the suggestion of sharp features, dark hair, the glint of eyes that are definitely, absolutely fixed on me.
I should be scared.
Some strange man lurking in the shadows of an estate that's crawling with mafia security?
Every survival instinct I have should be screaming at me to run.
Instead, I take a step closer.
"You know," I call out, my voice steadier than I feel, "most people say hello when they're staring at someone."
He doesn't move, doesn't even respond.
The silence stretches and my heart hammers against my ribs.
Then he steps forward, out of the shadows, and—
Oh.
The stable light catches his face, and I forget how to breathe.
He's beautiful.
Not pretty, not handsome—beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful.
All sharp angles and carved cheekbones and a mouth that looks like it was designed for sin.
Dark hair, a little too long, falling across his forehead.
Eyes that are pale—blue or gray, I can't tell from here—and cold in a way that should make me step back.
I don't step back.
He's wearing all black.
Expensive but understated.
The kind of clothes that are meant to let you fade into the background, except there's nothing about this man that fades.
He's tall—taller than Doran, maybe—with shoulders that strain the fabric of his jacket and hands that look like they could crush bone without effort.
A silver chain glints at his throat.
No other jewelry. No visible weapons.
That doesn't mean there aren't any.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
His voice is low.
Rough.
An accent that curls around the words like smoke—Irish, but with something harder underneath.
Something that speaks of back alleys and bloodstained knuckles and secrets buried in shallow graves.
"Shouldn't I?"
"No."
"And yet here I am." I cross my arms over my chest, acutely aware of how exposed I am. Silk blouse. Tailored trousers. No jacket. No phone. Nothing between me and this stranger but cool night air and sheer, stupid stubbornness. "Who are you?"
Something flickers in those cold eyes.
Surprise, maybe.
Like he's not used to being questioned.
"No one you need to concern yourself with."
"That's not a name."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
He moves closer. Just one step, but it feels like a threat. Like a promise. My heart kicks against my ribs.
"Are you security?" I ask.
"Something like that."
"For the Mackenzies?"
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Yes, with the Brotherhood."
The Brotherhood.
I've heard whispers.
Doran's mentioned them in passing—the men who handle problems that can't be solved with lawyers or money.
Liam Mackenzie's private army, some call them.
Standing here, in the dark, with this man's pale eyes pinning me in place, I understand why. "Do you have a name, Brotherhood man? Or should I just call you 'something like that'?"
His mouth curves.
Not quite a smile—more like the ghost of one, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. "RJ."
"RJ," I repeat, tasting the letters. "What's it short for?"
"Nothing that matters."
"Everything matters. Names especially." I tilt my head, studying him the way he's been studying me. "Let me guess. Robert James? Richard Joseph? Rory... something that starts with J?"
That ghost-smile again. Sharper this time. "You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm a curious person."
"Curiosity isn't always safe."
"Neither is lurking in the dark. And yet."
We stare at each other.
The night air feels electric, charged with something I can't name.
My skin is too tight.
My pulse is too fast.
I should walk away.
I should go back to the house, back to my sister, back to the safety of Greer's world.
Instead, I hold his gaze and let the silence build.
He breaks first—not with words, but with movement.
A slight shift of his weight, a tension in his jaw that tells me I'm getting under his skin.
Good.
"Go back inside," he says. "It's not safe out here."
"You keep saying that. Are you the danger I should be worried about?"
His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second.
A heartbeat.
Then they're back on mine, and something hot flares in my stomach.
"Go. Inside."
It's not a request. It's an order. The kind of command that expects instant obedience.
I've spent my whole life surrounded by men who give orders.
My father. His brothers. The whole damn club.
I've also spent my whole life choosing when to obey.
"I'll go inside when I'm ready," I say sweetly. "Enjoy your lurking."
I turn my back on him—a deliberate choice, a calculated risk—and walk toward the stables.
My skin burns with the awareness of his eyes following me, but I don't look back.
I don't look back even when I hear his footsteps fade into the darkness.
I don't look back even when I'm finally inside the stable, leaning against a wooden post, pressing my hand to my racing heart.
Who the hell was that?
RJ. Brotherhood. "Something like that."
The horses shift in their stalls, soft whickers and the rustle of hay.
The smell of leather and animal warmth wraps around me, familiar and grounding.
One of them—the chestnut mare from earlier—pokes her velvet nose over her stall door, huffing a warm breath against my shoulder.
"Hey, pretty girl," I murmur, reaching up to stroke her forelock.
She leans into my touch, her dark eyes soft and trusting.
So different from the eyes of the man outside.
Those pale, winter-cold eyes that saw too much.
That wanted too much.
I take a deep breath. Another.
My hands are shaking.
I tell myself it's adrenaline.
Fear.
The normal response to a strange man appearing out of the shadows like some kind of gothic nightmare.
But that's not why I'm shaking.
I'm shaking because when he looked at me—when those cold eyes dropped to my mouth—I felt something ignite.
And I wanted to burn.
I find Rev in the kitchen an hour later, perched on a counter with a cup of tea and a knowing look on her face.
"You were gone for a while."
"Went for a walk."
"In the dark?"
"The grounds are beautiful."
She hums, unconvinced. "See anything interesting?"
Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes like winter.
"Just horses."
Rev studies me over the rim of her cup.
We're twins.
We've shared everything since before we were born.
She knows when I'm lying, but she also knows when not to push.
"Greer's going to love your work tomorrow," she says instead. "I have a feeling."
"Your feelings aren't always right."
"My feelings are always right. Remember when I said Doran was going to change everything?"
I remember.
I remember thinking she was crazy.
I remember being terrified for her.
I remember watching her walk into a world of power and violence and choosing to stay.
I remember being wrong about all of it.
"Fine," I concede. "Your feelings have a decent track record."
"The best track record." She grins and slides off the counter. "Come on. Early morning tomorrow. You need sleep."
I let her pull me toward the stairs, but my mind is still in the gardens.
Still on the shadow who stepped into the light.
Still wondering if I'll ever see him again.
Later, in the darkness of my guest room, I stare at the ceiling and think about monsters.
My father is one.
Not in a bad way—in the way that all powerful men are monsters.
He's capable of terrible things.
I've known that since I was old enough to understand what the club really is.
Doran is one too, maybe worse.
The things he's done, the things he's capable of—Rev doesn't tell me everything, but she doesn't have to.
I see it in the way people look at him.
The fear that flickers in their eyes.
And the man in the shadows...
He felt like something else entirely.
Not just capable of violence.
Made of it.
Like cruelty was the only language he'd ever been taught.
Like something human had been carved out of him long ago, leaving only the weapon behind.
RJ.
A name that told me nothing.
Eyes that told me everything.
I should be horrified.
I should be grateful he told me to go inside.
I should be praying I never see him again.
Instead, I close my eyes and see his face in the darkness.
The sharp cut of his jaw.
The fullness of his mouth.
The way his throat moved when he said my name—no, wait.
He didn't say my name.
He didn't ask for it, but he wanted to.
I could see it, that flicker of something beneath the ice.
Instead, I felt that hot flare in my stomach when his eyes dropped to my mouth.
Instead, I wonder what it would take to make those cold eyes burn.
Tomorrow, I'll show Greer my portfolio.
Tomorrow, I'll face the judgment of the woman who holds my career in her perfectly manicured hands.
Tomorrow, everything could change.
But tonight, in the darkness of my guest room, with Irish moonlight spilling through the curtains and the distant sound of horses shifting in their stalls...
Tonight, I think about a stranger named RJ who watches from the shadows and tells women to go inside where it's safe.
I fall asleep with his voice in my ears.
Go back inside. It's not safe out here.
Maybe not.
But I've never been very good at playing it safe.
And something tells me neither has he.