9. Orla
ORLA
" T his way," Cillian says, guiding me through stacks of shipping containers four stories high. "I need to verify the McAllister shipment has arrived intact." He is antsy today, crankier than usual.
I trail beside him, my tablet in hand. I have the packing lists open, and ready. The container stacks are near the docks, remote enough that any noise vanishes. It's the deal place for both legitimate business and things you'd want to hide in plain sight.
"These quality checks matter," Cillian says as we pass workers who nod. "My father believes in hands-on management."
What he doesn't say—this facility is for more than furniture and electronics. I've seen the manifests with weight discrepancies. The couches are stuffed with other things. Weapons, most likely. My Dad's notes mentioned this particular stack repeatedly.
"Check these against the packing list," Cillian says, handing me a folder. "I need to speak with the night manager."
I nod, accepting the documents while scanning the area. Four security guards. Cameras at every corner. Two exits both with access control, security guards and cameras. I flip through papers, noting the real discrepancies while pretending to mark off the packing list.
A security guard approaches Cillian, whispering something. His casual stance vanishes, replaced by hyper-vigilance.
"Stay close," he murmurs, returning to my side. "We have some uninvited guests." This place gave me the creeps before I knew we were not alone. Now all I see is that maze from mouse-trap and imagine we have nowhere to run.
Three men emerge from behind a shipping container. Not workers—the way they stand I can tell they are not laborers. Two keep their hands near jacket pockets, I know they are armed. They don't even try hide their guns.
"Mr. Kavanagh," the tallest one says. "Wasn't aware you'd be visiting today."
"Malone." Cillian moves in front of me, his voice cold. "This is Kavanagh property. Your boss knows the boundaries."
"Boundaries are pretty flexible," another man says. "Mr. Donovan sends regards."
The Donovan crew has pushed into Kavanagh territory for months, according to Detective Doyle's. There is a war brewing—these men are not here to exchange pleasantries.
"Leave," Cillian says, "and I'll consider this a misunderstanding."
I sense the movement behind us. A fourth man his, eyes fixed on me. Cillian sees him but can't deal with both threats at once.
The tall one—Malone—laughs. "Nice assistant. Shame to risk her safety over boundaries and all."
Everything happens at once. Malone reaches into his jacket. Cillian rushes forward. Security guards come running from hidden corners of the yard.
The man behind us lunges for me, grabbing my arm. Instinct and training kick in.
I strike his solar plexus with my elbow, stamp his instep, and twist away. When he stumbles, I step aside and push him into a crate.
He rushes at me again. I duck, and sweep his leg. He falls hard.
I stay defensive but don't attack—a normal woman might know basic self defense, but not offensive moves. My cover matters most. I can protect myself—but I Orla would never attack a man.
Cillian moves with brutal force, nothing like the flawless executive from the office. He is a deadly weapon, one I should run away from while I still can.
In thirty seconds, it's over. The Donovan crew dead on the concrete floor. My attacker stares at me, blood dripping from his nose.
Cillian turns to me, his eyes wide. He looks from my stance to the man on the ground.
"You took him down." Not a question.
I make my hands shake, using real adrenaline. "He grabbed me. I just... reacted."
Cillian turns to his security team. "Get them out of here. Call Patrick. This needs to handled."
The bodies 'disappear' into dark vans. Cillian walks over to me.
"Are you hurt?"
"No." I rub my wrist as if it hurts. "Just shaken up."
He points toward the car. "We're done here."
In his black Mercedes, Cillian is silent he drives a while before speaking to me.
"Where does an executive assistant learn to fight like that?" he asks.
I've rehearsed this answer. The best lies mix with truth.
"My ex-boyfriend made me take self-defense after my apartment was broken into," I say. "Three months of Krav Maga basics."
"Basics," Cillian says. "You dropped a man twice your size."
I look at my hands. "Adrenaline, I guess. The instructor said muscles remember when brains panic."
He drives, his jaw tight. "Most people freeze their first time in danger."
"I froze when my apartment was invaded," I say, another partial truth. "That's why I took the class."
"Thank you," I say. "For protecting me back there."
His knuckles are red and raw. "It's part of my job. Though you managed well enough on your own."
The car is suddenly too hot inside. Each breath seems to add to the humidity. The leather seats, the shared danger—it all creates an unwanted closeness.
I notice things I shouldn't. His jawline. A scar near his eyebrow. How his eyes check mirrors for danger every few seconds.
"Are we—" I ask. "are we being followed?"
"No," Cillian says.
We stop at a red light. His phone buzzes with texts he ignores. Heat mists up the widows—danger and attraction mixing.
"Your job description keeps getting longer," he says as we pull up to my apartment. "Spreadsheets, shipping manifests, close combat with thugs."
I offer a small laugh. "Not what I expected when I applied."
His eyes find mine. "Nothing with my family will ever match expectations."
I grab my purse, needing space from this moment, from him. My hand reaches for the door handle.
Cillian's hand closes over mine, stopping me. "Wait."
I turn back, my pulse racing so hard I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. His eyes darken as they search my face. Without warning, he moves across the center console, his hand gripping the back of my neck.
His mouth crashes against mine with raw hunger. The kiss isn't gentle—it's possessive, claiming, marking. His tongue demands entrance, and I open for him without hesitation. The taste of him—mint and adrenaline and danger—floods my senses.
My hands grab his shirt, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle. His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging my head back to deepen the kiss. A moan escapes me as his teeth catch my lower lip, biting just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity down my spine.
His other hand slides up my thigh, leaving a trail of fire through my skirt. I arch toward him, my body betraying every rational thought in my head. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
"I want you," he growls against my skin, the words vibrating through me.
I grip his shoulders, nails digging into expensive fabric. "Cillian?—"
He pulls back enough to look at me, his eyes nearly black with desire. His thumb traces my swollen lips, still wet from his kiss.
"Come upstairs with me," I whisper, throwing caution to the wind.
For a moment, I think he'll accept. Then rational thought returns. He pulls back, though his hand lingers on my neck.
"No," he says, voice rough. "Not like this."
The rejection stings, but his eyes promise this isn't over—just delayed.
I reach for the door, my legs unsteady. He catches my wrist before I can exit.
"Orla." His voice stops me. "You kicked ass today."
His praise shouldn't matter. His family killed mine. Yet warmth flows through me, I fawn at his praise like a love starved puppy.
"Goodnight, Cillian."
I walk into my building on shaky legs, my body still throbbing from his touch. I can feel his eyes on me until I go inside. In the elevator, I rest against the wall, fingers touching my lips where I can still taste him.
The warehouse proved two truths. It might be harder to hide my ass-kicking skills than I thought, and my attraction to Cillian Kavanagh is getting dangerously close to clouding my judgment.