Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Owen
“How’s that book coming along?” I ask her. We sit languidly by the orange embers of a morning fire.
“Well,” she says, biting her lip. “Took Christmas off because who works on Christmas?”
“You do,” I tell her sternly. “You came here to finish your book, and goddamn it, woman, you’re not leavin’ till it’s done, even if I have to tie you to the chair myself.”
Blinking, she stares at me for a moment. “Do you have any idea how productive writers would be if they had the hound of hell, you, chomping at their heels to finish their books?”
I growl at her because she’s only stalling at this point, and I’m not going to be her distraction. “I don’t care about other writers. I care about you.”
The words make time stand still for a brief moment, and I know it isn’t just me because her throat bobs when she swallows hard. “Alright, then.” Her eyes twinkle at me, hopeful. “Same rules?”
“Same rules, young lady,” I tell her, standing to fetch her laptop and mine. “You know exactly what happens if you don’t hit your word count.”
“Mmm,” she says with a smirk. “And what do I get if I do finish?”
I lean in, brush a strand of hair off her forehead, and tuck it behind her ear. “I’ll lay you down and eat you out until you scream my name.”
I love the little choked sound she makes.
“Deal!” she shouts at my retreating back.
I consider staying in the room to check my email.
I don’t want to risk her being privy to my work, even for a second, but when I look over at her, she’s happily typing away at her laptop.
She does this thing when she types—screwing her face up with the utmost concentration.
I watch as she mouths words, pauses to draw things in the air with her hands, then giggles to herself at a line she just wrote.
I don’t want to work. It’s highly entertaining watching her.
But duty calls. With a sigh, I open up my email with the smallest browser window I can possibly manage.
I work quickly, my fingers flying over the keys illuminated in the laptop light, as I work the secrets that pay my bills: fake IDs, ghost companies, maps and schedules that are untraceable by anyone with a badge.
I build a veritable labyrinth for the McCarthy family, and when they want a job done without questions, my phone will ring.
And there are very few lines I wouldn’t cross.
Outside, I think I hear something. Is that a voice? I turn my head to look out the iced-over window, but see no light. Emma doesn’t even pause, happily tapping away at her keyboard without a care in the world.
And I know then, while the wind threatens frostbite and dangers lurk right outside this door, that I’ll do anything, anything, to keep Emma safe.
I go back to my work and finish a few jobs in record time. A text comes in from Seamus McCarthy, the McCarthy family boss.
Seamus McCarthy
Well done, Owen. Will you be by at the weekend to discuss what we’ll need for next month?
I pause before I respond. Will I? What would McCarthy do if I say no?
They call him The Undertaker, and he’s earned that reputation.
He seems cordial enough when you meet him face-to-face, but he’s ruthless as fuck.
He once shot a motherfucker dead for not standing when his wife walked in the room.
He escaped a notorious Russian prison, then personally eliminated damn near an entire crime ring of his own because they betrayed him.
No one fucks with Seamus McCarthy.
Thank you. This weekend is tricky for me. I have an out-of-town guest
Seamus McCarthy
I see. Perhaps it’s best I find someone else to do the job
Goddamn it. I knew he’d pull something like that.
No, sir, that’s not necessary. I’ll make sure she’s secured before I come to see you
I shake my head when another text comes in.
Seamus McCarthy
Bring her with you. My wife would love to meet her.
Bring my woman to the wolves’ den? Oh hell no.
I’m sorry, but she has other plans. I’ll come myself.
McCarthy
Next time, then. See you this weekend. You know where to go.
“Why so glum?” I startle and nearly topple my chair over when I turn to see Emma standing right behind me.
Did she see the damn screen?
“My god, don’t scare a man like that. Here I am, minding my own damn business, and you damn near shocked me to death.”
Her giggle is contagious. I can’t hide my own smile.
“Did you see that screen?” I ask, my heart thundering in my chest. There wasn’t much she could’ve seen, but…
“Not a thing,” she says, two fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Not sure that’s a real salute.” I pull her, screaming and scrambling to get away, onto my lap. I wrap my arms around her and kiss the side of her temple. When she stands, I give her ass an appreciative little smack.
The fire crackles, the cabin still faintly scented with pine and cedar.
And for a moment, I pretend… this is real.
That she’s mine. That it’s just a normal workday with her focused on her words and me focused on my jobs.
In just a few minutes, she’ll peck me on the cheek, and I’ll head out to do my job. She’ll stay safe, and so will I.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she says, sitting back and stretching.
“I’m thinking of how pretty your arse will be after your punishment. I’m thinking it’ll match a good Christmas cherry red, hmm?”
With a cute little grunt, she sticks her tongue out and goes back to her work.
“Watch it, woman,” I warn her. “No cheek from you.”
She gives me a withering sigh, and I shake my head, rising to put the kettle on. Caitlin McCarthy, family matriarch, insists there’s nothing a good cup of hot tea doesn’t cure, and she’s not wrong.
The kettle whistles, and I pour her a cup of tea, careful to let it steep just right before I pour in cream and sugar. She stands beside me and takes a long pull.
“Mmm. Perfect. Just what I need to get me through the last chapter. It’s all about the yearning, Owen, you know?”
Of course I fucking know.
“I have every confidence you can do it with perfection,” I tell her. “Woodpile’s getting low. You finish your work, and I’ll get some more. When I come back, I’ll check how many words you’ve got so I can decide if you’re going to be punished or rewarded.”
She leaps up, narrowly escaping a smack to her ass, runs to the computer, and plunks it back on her lap. I kind of hope she doesn’t get them again.
And when I open the door, I hate the growing dread I feel about being apart from her. I don’t know if it’s my own damn need for her, or some fucked-up intuition that tells me she isn’t safe alone.
I ought to know. I deal with criminals who live by a whole different playbook than nearly anyone else.
I make quick work of splitting the logs and stacking them, since we only need a few for tonight, when I hear the deep timbre of a man’s voice in the distance.
I’m instantly alert, axe hanging by one hand, moving toward the cabin, when I see the footprints. They’re heavy, big, and man-sized—two pairs.
Then the high-pitched sound of a woman’s scream.