Chapter 4
Four
ALEXANDER MOORE
The abandoned warehouse sat in no-man's-land between Ashford Estate and former O'Malley territory.
Corrugated metal walls patched with rust, grimy windows—a structure forgotten after the Flanagans had taken over this parcel from the O'Malleys long ago enough that he couldn't remember.
Following the takeover, it had just sat here undisturbed.
I slipped inside through an unsecured side entrance. The interior was dark, but someone had recently disturbed the dust—clear pathways marked the concrete floor.
Following the trail, I discovered what I knew not to be Flanagan owned: state-of-the-art surveillance equipment arranged on a makeshift workstation.
"Fuck me sideways…"
Monitors displayed real-time feeds of our main shipping entrance. Directional microphones, signal boosters, weapons too—not street hardware, but precision instruments. A disassembled sniper rifle, tactical gear, encrypted communication devices.
A laptop sat open, its screen saver a hypnotic pattern.
"Must be O'Malley shit," I murmured, tracing the edge of a monitor.
I retreated to the shadows, positioning myself to observe the entrance unseen. Someone would surely show up at some point to check in on their doings. If they'd established this detailed an operation on my territory, I wanted to be here for it.
I thought it would never happen. When I was starting to wonder if I had lost my mind, my stomach rumbling a detailed tune, my patience was finally rewarded. It was a couple hours after nightfall and I couldn't see properly, but the side door opened and a slender figure slipped inside.
Even in dim light, the woman's auburn hair was unmistakable, a shade given fleeting prominence by the flashlight she carried as she moved—rich as blood against pale skin.
Aoife O'Malley. Connor's supposedly sheltered daughter moved with practiced stealth.
Swiss finishing schools, art history at the Sorbonne, charity galas…
and a heated encounter that was over far too soon.
Nothing we'd found in our intelligence suggested she could handle surveillance tech with such expertise, or that she'd be the one to show up in person.
But after meeting her years ago, I knew better. Aoife was in a league of her own.
I cautiously crept to a side window, careful to be as quiet as possible.
In the darkness, it was no small feat. Slowly, I angled my head so I could look inside.
Thanks to her lighting, I could see her enough that my cock stirred.
Clad in dark fitted clothing that outlined her graceful form, she sidled to the workstation.
She plugged in what looked like a small portable hard drive, then her fingers danced over the keyboard, sharp focus outlined on her features.
I could have confronted her then. Instead, I was rooted to the spot, not least for professional curiosity. For something as crucial as this, I would bide my time.
Tonight, I'd let her be. She slipped her device into her jacket pocket and slipped out as silently and swiftly as she'd come.
For six days, I returned each evening. She always came alone, downloaded data, and left. Why did she not send someone to do her dirty work? Wasn't there anyone she could trust?
Interesting.
On the seventh day, she arrived earlier than usual, visibly agitated. She paced, checked equipment repeatedly, waited. After an hour, she slammed her palm against the desk.
"Damn it!" she ground out, her voice carrying.
This was it. Stepping from the shadows, I opened the door and entered, letting my footfalls echo on the concrete.
She whirled, hand reaching for her waist, body instantly coiled for attack.
"Quite an operation you've established here, Miss O'Malley," I said conversationally. "On my property." Flanagan property, but I was responsible for it.
She'd switched on a battery-operated lantern today. Getting bold…
Green eyes—shifting between ice and emerald depending on the light—assessed me with cold calculation, and of course, recognition.
I remembered every line of her classically beautiful face.
High cheekbones carved with aristocratic precision.
Lips full enough to soften her severity.
Skin pale as porcelain, with nearly invisible freckles across her nose.
"Your property?" Her tone held that particular inflection of privilege, tempered with stark clarity. "This warehouse sits on the boundary. My father's maps show it as neutral territory."
"Your father's maps are outdated, and you know it, don't you?" I stepped closer, watching her shift to the balls of her feet. "The deed was transferred to the Flanagans twenty years ago."
"The Flanagans," she echoed, a slight curl to her lip. "So now the housekeeper's son speaks of his family property. How cute."
The barb slid off me. I'd heard worse.
"Quite sophisticated equipment for an art history major," I said, gesturing to the workstation. "Unless the Sorbonne has changed its curriculum. Though I suppose you've always been full of surprises."
Something flashed in those green eyes—a yearning perhaps. Or maybe not. She recovered instantly.
"What do you want, Mr. Moore?" She edged toward the door, keeping an appropriate distance between us.
"Currently? I'm assessing your threat level." I kept my tone professional, though I couldn't help admiring the strategic mind evident behind her careful movements. And more… "The data you've collected—shipments, security rotations, personnel files—amounts to a declaration of intent."
"Intent to level the playing field," she countered, chin lifting slightly. "Your employer killed my father, destroyed my home, scattered my family. Information seems a small recompense."
"Ronan doesn't employ me. We're partners." The correction came automatically, betraying a sensitivity I rarely displayed.
Her smile was swift and cutting. "Semantics. You're still his attack dog."
I closed the distance between us by another step. "You have a skill for baiting, I see. Perhaps useful with most men. Unfortunately for you, I'm not most men."
"No," she agreed, gaze flicking over me with unexpected heat that contradicted her icy demeanour. "You're not." Her eyes locked with mine. "I've studied you, Alexander Moore."
The way she said my name—like she was savouring each syllable—sent an unwelcome current down my spine, straight to my cock.
"Then you should know to count your losses," I advised. "I'll let you live, I suppose, out of respect for… the past. Everything stays here though. It's mine now."
Her laugh was low, musical, entirely without humour. She shook her head, auburn hair catching the dim light. "Of course."
Pursing her lips, she moved with surprising speed, diving for the exit. The devil on my shoulder told me not to let her though. I intercepted her easily, spinning her against the wall. The flash of a blade caught me off guard, aimed at my throat.
I deflected, the knife slicing across my palm instead. Blood welled hot against my skin.
"First blood to you," I acknowledged, feeling a spark of appreciation.
"And the last," she hissed, slashing again.
I sidestepped, but I wasn't fooled. Every strike of hers was deliberate, economical, yet strangely performative—as if she were showcasing her skills rather than fighting to kill.
Perhaps she wanted me alive…
"You're holding back," I observed, parrying another strike. "If you wanted me dead, you'd have gone for the femoral artery, not these theatrical swipes."
Anger flashed across her face, making her eyes burn brighter. "Don't mistake strategy for hesitation, Moore."
She launched forward with renewed intensity. I blocked, caught her wrist, and applied precise pressure to the nerve cluster. The knife clattered to the floor, but she countered immediately, hooking her foot behind my ankle and nearly toppling me.
We grappled, her body surprisingly strong for its delicate appearance. Each time I gained advantage, she countered with unexpected ingenuity. Each time she created an opening, I closed it with practiced efficiency.
Finally, I pinned her against the wall, one hand securing her knife arm above her head, my forearm across her throat—not pressing, merely containing. I leaned in, bringing our faces mere inches apart. She was just as breathless as me.
"Quite the hellcat," I murmured, tasting copper where my lip had split. "Tell me: why this, why now?"
Her pulse raced visibly at her throat, chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. The scent of her—botanical with hints of amber—registered unexpectedly.
"Fuck you," she spat, eyes flashing with emerald fire.
"Articulate as well as dangerous," I commented dryly. "Not very polite. But then, you've always had your own way of doing things."
She bucked against my hold, bringing our bodies into fuller contact. The movement sent unexpected heat through me—a visceral reminder that this was no ordinary adversary. Her body was all lean muscle and subtle curves pressing against mine, her breath warm on my face.
"Your surveillance operation ends today," I said evenly, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Whatever intelligence you've gathered, whatever plans you've made—it doesn't matter. Quit it now."
"Or what?" she challenged, voice husky from the pressure on her throat. "You'll kill me like you killed my father?"
"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be talking right now." I leaned closer, my lips near her ear. "Consider this professional courtesy. Walk away."
Something shifted in her expression—a flicker of respect, perhaps even reluctant appreciation. For a moment, I thought she might consider the offer.
Then, her knee shot upward.
I twisted my body, taking the blow on my thigh. The shift in balance was enough for her to wrench her knife arm free so she could make her attempt at slashing my face.
I caught her wrist, the blade coming dangerously close, reflecting my own dark eyes back at me. This was no longer testing. She meant to do damage.