Chapter 15 Declan
FIFTEEN
declan
Marlowe is really testing my patience.
I tear down the sidewalk at a dead run, lungs burning, boots hitting concrete in a steady, punishing rhythm. Thank fuck for Mikey. He was on emergency-exit watch. He tailed her. He told me where she went.
And then he let me know someone followed her.
“Fucking eejit,” I snarl—at myself as much as her.
I could’ve cut this off the second she slipped out the back of that restaurant.
Could’ve blocked her, hauled her back to my side, ended it before it had a chance to start.
But no. I was too busy listening to whispers about the redhead, about how she’s “probably Marlowe,” about whether being “married” to a Murphy makes her untouchable.
It does. Mostly.
But no matter how protected she is now, the whispers still follow…
how she tried to rat, tried to help those who want her father.
He’s gone. He owes big. They let him go because men like Briggs are worth more than money if you keep them breathing.
Information flows easier from a man who’s desperate and still alive.
Especially when his wife swims in high-society circles.
Right now, I’ve got a lot to clean up. The rumors. The photo. The fucking police-issued gun I lifted and never gave to Torin. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe not. All I know is if I don’t clear Molly’s name and we walk away from this farce of a marriage, she’ll be a scapegoat and a pawn twice over.
But first, I’ve got to save her pretty arse from whoever snatched her.
I sprint into the park, eyes scanning the shadows.
I spot her almost instantly, pinned against a tree, dress torn, bare back scraping against bark.
A big bastard in a long coat and hat has her trapped, one hand on her, the other fumbling for more underneath the ripped fabric.
He shoves the skirt up, reaching for what’s about to become his last mistake.
Fury ignites in my chest, a bright, clean burn that’s ready to incinerate.
I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just launch myself at him, my boot crushing his ribs, knocking him off her and onto the grass.
“If ye so much as thought about touching her where you shouldn’t,” I snarl, “I’ll kill ye.”
His face twists, eyes full of something ugly, something greedy. This isn’t random. This is hunger. Obsession.
And she’s mine.
Mine.
“You can have her after I’ve had my fill,” he sneers.
I barely feel myself move. The gun somehow appears in my hand, barrel aimed between his eyes.
Behind me, Molly makes broken little sounds, like wounded-animal noises that hook right into my spine.
“We can double-team her, use—”
I pull the trigger. Once.
Her scream rips across the park as the bastard stills. For a second everything goes silent in my head. I stand there, chest heaving, listening for footsteps, shouts, witnesses.
But there’s nothing. We’re alone. Thank fuck for the silencer.
“Be quiet, please,” I say, forcing my voice to calm as I kneel down and search the body.
Wallet. USB drive. No phone.
“Are you okay?” I ask without looking at her. “Did the bastard hurt you?”
“No,” she whispers. “B-but y-ou killed him.”
“And I’d do it again,” I say flatly. “Make no mistake, Molly.”
Inside his coat I find a gag, a small bottle of some chemical, a capped syringe. Handcuffs. Rope. A full fucking kidnapper starter kit.
There’s also a thin scrapbook tucked into an inner pocket.
Shite.
I grab her arm and haul her close after scooping up the worst of the evidence. “I’ve got you, Molly girl,” I mutter.
I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around her shredded dress, covering her bare, shaking back. My arm stays around her as I pocket the syringe, the bottle, my gun, and the book.
At the park entrance, Mikey waits for us, the car door already open. I shove the evidence into his hands and then I haul Molly close to kiss her.
It was just supposed to be for comfort. A simple, steady thing. Just my mouth on hers, a soft brush to anchor her, to anchor us.
But it’s not soft. At all.
Electricity hits me straight in the gut, and yeah, my cock answers like the fucking degenerate I am. She melts into me after a second, mouth opening, tongue sliding against mine. I fist her hair, push her back into the open door, let the kiss deepen, darken—
Then I wrench myself away, my head snapping back to the reality where she was almost just assaulted and accosted by that son of a bitch.
“Get in,” I grunt against her lips.
“You just—”
One harsh look from me is enough. She swallows, nods, and climbs in. I follow.
There’s a buzzing inside me, crawling under my skin. It’s not the kill, though. I’ve killed when I had to. Those faces haunt me sometimes, deep in the night, but tonight?
I don’t give a fuck.
I should be soothing her, making her feel safe. Instead, all I can think about is how she’s catnip for something twisted. For a man who likes control, for someone who isn’t supposed to be into pain…but might be willing to walk a fine line if it’s with her.
Not a sadist. Not a masochist. Just…hooked.
She’s addictive. Like cocaine in a red dress.
I gave up the white powder years ago.
Maybe she’s my new drug.
I press my fingertips to the sides of my head. Jesus. I’m a mess, and I’m not even the one who got dragged into the dark by a stalker.
“You piss me off, Molly girl,” I say finally. “I won’t lie.”
“Me? I’m not the one who killed—”
“Careful now.” My gaze cuts to hers. “Because I did that for you.”
“So now I owe you?”
Good question. I’m being paid to babysit her, and the sex is…an optional fringe benefit. My brothers would probably say she owes me a debt now. They might even be right.
But there’s something about this spoiled, sharp-tongued ballerina that pokes at the soft spots I don’t like to admit exist inside of me. Those spots are supposed to be reserved for pets. For kids. For family.
There are different kinds of owing.
Some of them she does.
Some of them she doesn’t.
Mikey weaves through traffic, heading downtown. Clive headed back to the dinner, reporting in to my brothers.
“What you owe me,” I say at last, “is good behavior. And obedience.”
“Sexually?” she asks, voice too bright, too eager, and it spears heat straight into my gut.
“I meant in general,” I bite out. “Not doing stupid shit like running into danger.”
“I didn’t know.” She swallows. “Mom wanted to meet for lunch—”
“It’s not lunchtime, Molly.”
“And I had to pick up a package. So I went and—”
“What was it?” I cut in.
It’s then I notice her hands. She’s holding onto something. I guess I missed it before while I was killing the bastard who touched her.
Should’ve taken him apart piece by piece.
She holds the box out without a word.
My stomach flips when I open it.
Her pointe shoes, shredded and stained a deep, ugly red.
A flash hits me. There were red streaks on the dead man’s fingers, on his coat.
“For a long time, I didn’t really think I had a stalker,” she whispers. “But the bird and then these shoes…”
Her voice trails off.
I stare down at them. There’s a white scrap tucked in the tissue paper, a note, probably. Threats. Promises. Doesn’t matter. The message is in the gift, same as the bird. The flower bouquet. The one red bloom in a sea of white. Innocence ended. Blood. Death.
Shit.
The air shifts. She’s talking again, her voice low and shaky, but I catch the tone more than the words. Her perfume, roses and peonies, curls in the air around me, mixing with the sharp, sour scent of sweat in the shoes. I slant her a look.
“Are these yours, Molly?”
She shoves her hands under the hem of my jacket, which is buttoned over her like a makeshift dress. I remember she’s naked under the tattered gown. I didn’t give her underwear to wear with it. I wanted her on edge all night.
But not like this.
I shut that thought down.
“Yes,” she says quietly.
I press my lips together and nod. Then I flip open the thin scrapbook from the dead man’s coat.
It’s all her.
Notes. Numbers. Candid photos. Her alone. With Leon. With me. With her mam. A few newspaper clippings thrown in.
I snap it shut before she can see.
The wallet is simple. Driver’s license says his name was Reginald Cole. I rifle through the slots. One debit card, a few crumpled bills. Nothing else.
White hot ire burns my blood. I don’t want to feel anything for her. She ran off. Given five minutes with no interruption by a sick, sadistic fuck, she’d probably have gone hunting for Leon next.
I sit back against the seat. The air in the car is thick with tension, and if I reach for her, I’m not sure if I’m going to comfort her or devour her.
Better to get home and process all this.
I think the reason she’s in danger is lying dead in that park. He’s the stalker, that much is obvious. But I need to check his address and what’s on the USB, just to be sure.
Once I know for certain, I could let her go. Job done.
Except it isn’t. Not until I scrub the price off her head. Not until her name is clear of the truckyard. Not until I find her father.
And the bastard who tried to set me up with the drugs.
Fuck, this is nowhere near done.
“Dec—”
“I wouldn’t talk right now if I were you,” I say.
We ride the rest of the way in silence.
At home, I send Mikey off and take one long look at Molly before changing. I order her to her room with strict instructions. I change my clothes, grab Arnold’s leash, and scoop up a whining Petal, wheeled harness and all.
I don’t trust Marlowe as far as I can throw the entire fucking house, so I’ve already made sure the place is locked down.
No one comes in or goes out except for immediate family.
That doesn’t include Marlowe. Brendan’s on watch across the street, cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, looking like some lad waiting for a date.
He’s one of several stationed around the place. Cal isn’t playing games with cartel-adjacent ghosts sniffing around us.
Neither am I.