CHAPTER 2 Declan #2
I slowly pull a linen napkin from the dispenser, reach across the table, and wipe up the spilled water. I don't look at the mess. I keep my eyes locked on hers.
"It's just water," I say quietly.
She exhales a shaky breath and brings the glass to her lips, drinking it down in three long swallows. She ignores the food.
As the plane taxis down the runway and begins its steep ascent, the adrenaline that has been keeping her upright finally crashes.
I watch the exact moment her body gives out.
Her eyelids droop. Her head lolls against the thick leather headrest. She fights it for ten minutes, blinking rapidly, trying to keep her eyes fixed on me, but exhaustion wins.
She falls asleep, her cheek pressed against the collar of my jacket.
I set the tablet down. The cabin is quiet, save for the steady hum of the engines.
I allow myself, for the first time in three months, to really look at her without the filter of a surveillance screen. The dark circles under her eyes. The pale, translucent quality of her skin. The ink stain on the side of her left index finger from where she chewed her pen tonight.
She is a disaster. She is chaotic, insubordinate, and entirely out of her depth.
And she is mine.
I lean back in my seat, staring at the steady pulse beating at the base of her throat. I should have handed her off to a secure extraction team. I should have placed her in a standard safe house with a rotating guard detail. That is protocol. That is how you keep emotional distance.
But the thought of another man standing outside her door, another man watching her sleep, another man being the one to protect her, makes my blood run cold.
No one else touches her. No one else gets near her.
I reach across the table. My fingers brush the soft fabric of the jacket near her neck. I don't wake her. I just let my knuckles rest against the warmth of her shoulder for a fraction of a second before pulling back.
**
The landing wakes her.
Maeve gasps, her eyes snapping open as the wheels of the jet hit the tarmac with a heavy jolt. She looks disoriented, her hands gripping the armrests until her knuckles turn white.
"We're on the ground," I say, my voice deliberately calm to anchor her.
She blinks, looking out the small oval window. "Where are we?"
"Colorado."
It’s 5:30 AM. The sky outside is a bruised, dark purple, heavy with the promise of a severe winter storm. The wind is howling across the runway, driving thick sheets of snow against the glass.
We disembark quickly. A heavily modified, armored SUV is waiting on the tarmac, its engine running. I guide her into the passenger seat, taking the wheel myself.
The drive up the mountain takes forty-five minutes.
The roads are treacherous, winding through dense pine forests that look black against the snow.
Maeve doesn't speak. She stares out the window, watching civilization disappear behind us.
No streetlights. No other cars. Just the relentless, blinding white of the blizzard.
"You're taking me to the middle of nowhere," she whispers, her breath fogging the cold glass.
"I'm taking you somewhere Richard Evans can't reach."
We crest a steep ridge, and the Safe House comes into view.
It doesn't look like a cabin. It looks like a modern fortress. Built directly into the side of the mountain, it’s a brutalist structure of dark concrete, steel, and reinforced glass.
There are no welcoming porch lights. There are high-definition thermal cameras mounted on the eaves, and a twelve-foot steel gate that slides open seamlessly as my vehicle approaches.
I pull into the subterranean garage. The heavy metal door closes behind us with a final, echoing boom.
We are sealed in.
I cut the engine. The silence in the garage is absolute.
Maeve sits frozen in the passenger seat. She looks at the concrete walls, then looks at me. The reality of her situation is finally sinking in. She isn't just hiding. She is trapped.
"Get out," I say, stepping out of the vehicle.
She opens her door slowly, her sneakers hitting the pristine epoxy floor. She pulls my jacket tighter around herself.
I walk toward the steel security door leading into the main house. There is a biometric scanner mounted on the wall. I press my thumb to the glass, and a green light flashes, followed by the heavy clack of deadbolts retracting.
I push the door open and step aside, gesturing for her to enter.
She hesitates. She looks back at the garage door, then at the dark SUV, and finally at me.
"What are the rules?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
I look down at her. She is searching for a boundary, a line she can understand.
"Rule number one," I say, my voice dropping to a low, quiet register that echoes in the cold space.
"You do not leave this house. The perimeter is alarmed.
The glass is bulletproof. The doors are magnetically sealed.
If you try to run, the security system will lock you down before you reach the driveway. "
She swallows, her eyes wide. "And rule number two?"
I step closer. The space between us vanishes. She tilts her head back to maintain eye contact. I can smell the faint, sweet scent of vanilla in her hair, cutting through the sterile smell of the garage.
"Rule number two," I murmur, my gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before locking back onto her eyes. "You never leave my sight. Where I am, you are. Understood?"
Her breath hitches. The defiance flares back to life in her dark eyes, a beautiful, chaotic spark against the fear.
"I'm not a dog, Declan. You can't just keep me on a leash."
"I am keeping you alive, Maeve." I reach out, my thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her cold cheek. The touch is entirely unnecessary. It is a terrifying lapse in my own discipline. But her skin is soft, and she shivers under my hand. "The leash is non-negotiable."
I drop my hand, step through the doorway, and wait for her.
She stands there for three agonizing seconds, weighing her options. Then, with a tight, angry set to her jaw, she steps over the threshold and walks into my house.
The heavy steel door swings shut behind her, the deadbolts sliding into place with a sound like a vault locking forever.
The blizzard is raging outside, but the real storm is locked inside with me.