CHAPTER FOURTEEN
William
THE SAFE HOUSE appears in my headlights.
Stone walls. Slate roof. Windows dark and unwelcoming. It sits at the end of a gravel drive that cuts through farmland, isolated enough that no one asks questions, close enough to the city that I can get here in under an hour when I need to disappear.
I've been here too many times.
More than I should. More than is smart. But when the Murphy estate becomes too much, when the weight of Father's ghost and my brothers' expectations and the cocaine calling my name gets unbearable, this is where I come.
To this cold stone house in the middle of nowhere.
To silence and darkness and the illusion of peace.
I check the mirrors one last time. Nothing but empty road behind us.
No headlights. No tail. Frank's intelligence was good.
Viktor's people weren't subtle, no snipers, no precision hits.
The Bratva brought bazookas. Launched rockets at the Murphy house like they were leveling a military target.
They wanted spectacle. Wanted to send a message.
They saw the explosion. Saw the bodies we left for them to find.
They think everyone's dead.
That's the point.
I kill the engine. Sit in the sudden silence. Behind me, I can hear Aoife's breathing. Ragged. Broken. The sound of someone who's cried until there's nothing left.
She thinks her brother is dead.
She thinks everyone is dead.
Because I let her believe it.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, mixing with the adrenaline that's still coursing through my veins. We made it out. The plan worked. Frank came through with the intelligence, and I got everyone underground before Viktor's bombs turned the Murphy house into an inferno.
Everyone except the decoys.
The bodies we dressed in evening wear and positioned throughout the house. The ones that will burn beyond recognition. The ones that will make Viktor Tarasov think he won.
At least for a little while.
Long enough for us to regroup. To find the mole. To hit back.
But first, I need to tell Aoife the truth.
I glance in the rearview mirror. She's on the back seat now, curled into herself, the ruined midnight blue silk clinging to her like shadows. Her carefully styled hair has fallen loose. Her face is streaked with tears and mascara.
She looks destroyed.
Because of me.
Because I couldn't risk telling her. Couldn't risk the mole finding out that we knew about the attack. Couldn't risk everything we'd planned.
Even if it meant breaking her.
I open the door. The cold air hits me like a slap. It's colder out here than in the city.
I walk around to the back door. Open it.
Aoife doesn't look up. Doesn't move. Just stays curled on the seat like if she makes herself small enough, she'll disappear.
"Come on," I say quietly. "We're here."
Nothing.
"Aoife."
Still nothing.
I crouch down beside the open door. Reach in. My hand finds her shoulder, and she flinches at the touch but doesn't pull away.
"I need you to come inside," I say.
"Leave me alone." Her voice is wrecked. Raw.
"I can't do that."
"Everyone's dead. Just let me—"
"Reilan's alive."
Aoife goes completely still. Then, slowly, she lifts her head. Looks at me with eyes that are red and swollen and full of something that might be hope or might be rage.
"What?"
"Your brother is alive." I keep my voice calm. Steady. "Everyone is alive."
She stares at me. Doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just stares like she's trying to decide if I'm lying or if she's lost her mind.
"That's not possible," she whispers finally. "I saw it. I saw the house explode. I heard them—"
"You heard recordings." I shift closer, still crouched beside the open door. "Everything you heard, the party, the voices, the music, it was all recordings playing through speakers."
Her face goes blank. "No."
"Everyone who arrived at the estate tonight was security. My people. Dressed in evening wear to make it look real from a distance."
"No." She's shaking her head. "I saw the cars. The people. They were—"
"Actors. Guards. Every single one of them." I pause, let her process. "The real guests, your brother, my brothers, the families, they never came to the party. They're alive, Aoife. All of them."
The hope that flashes across her face is painful to watch.
Then it dies.
Replaced by something colder. Harder.
"You knew." Her voice is flat. "You knew this was going to happen, and you didn't tell me."
"Yes."
"You let me think my brother was dead."
"Yes."
"You let me grieve. Let me break. Let me—" Her voice cracks. "Why?"
The question I've been dreading.
I could lie. Could tell her it was for her own safety, that I was protecting her, that there wasn't time.
Before I say anything, she shifts closer to me.
"You thought I was the mole."
I don't answer. Don't need to.
The silence is answer enough.
"You thought I was the one betraying you." Her voice rises. "You thought I was working with Viktor."
"I couldn't risk—"
"Get me out of this car." She's moving now, reaching for the door. "Get me out. Now."
I step back. Give her room. She climbs out, stumbles slightly when her feet hit the gravel. I reach out to steady her, but she slaps my hand away.
"Don't touch me."
"Aoife—"
"Don't fucking touch me!" She's screaming now. "You let me think everyone was dead! You let me think my brother burned alive while I ran away like a coward!"
"I had to make sure—"
Her hand comes up fast. The slap cracks across my face hard enough to snap my head to the side.
I let it land. Don't move. Don't defend myself.
I deserve it.
"You bastard!" She hits me again. Open palm against my chest. "You goddamn bastard!"
Another hit. Then another.
I take it. Let her hit me. Let her scream.
"I thought he was dead!" Her fists pound against my chest. "I thought everyone was dead and it was my fault for surviving and you just—you just—"
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate. Useless.
"Sorry?" She laughs, wild and broken. "You're sorry? You let me think my brother burned alive, and you're sorry?"
"Yes."
"Fuck you!" Another hit. Harder this time. "Fuck you, William!"
I catch her wrists. Hard this time. Hard enough to stop her cold.
She fights me. Twists. Tries to pull free. But I'm stronger, and we both know it.
"Let me go!"
"No."
"William—"
"Not until you fucking calm down."
"Calm down?" She's still struggling, her whole body fighting against my grip. "You want me to calm down? After what you just put me through?"
"I know you're angry—"
"I'm not angry!" The scream tears out of her throat. "I'm furious! I'm devastated! I'm—"
She breaks off. Breathing hard. Her wrists are small in my hands, delicate bones under smooth skin. I can feel her pulse racing, wild and frantic.
We're standing too close. Close enough that I can see the tears on her lashes. Close enough that I can smell her perfume.
Close enough that when she looks up at me, I can see the exact moment fury shifts into something darker.
Something dangerous.
"You bastard," she whispers. But it sounds different now. Breathless. Rough.
"I know."
"I hate you."
"I know that, too."
"Reilan's really alive?"
"Yes."
"Everyone?"
"Everyone."
The sob that comes out of her is relief and rage all mixed together. Her body sags, the fight draining out of her.
But I don't let go of her wrists.
Can't let go.
Because if I let go, I'll do something I can't take back.
Something I shouldn't want as much as I do. I’m battling with myself when she suddenly moves.
She kisses me.
Slams her mouth against mine so hard our teeth clash. It's not gentle. Not soft. It's fury and relief and adrenaline all exploding at once.
I should stop this. Should push her away. Should be the one with control.
But fuck control.
I release her wrists, and my hands go to her waist, yanking her against me hard enough that she gasps into my mouth. My cock grows hard instantly.
Her hands are in my hair immediately, pulling hard enough to hurt. Good. I want it to hurt. Want something real and physical and undeniable.
I spin her around, press her back against the SUV. Her leg hooks around my hip, and I groan against her mouth as I push my cock against her. The contact has me throbbing.
"William." My name sounds wrecked coming from her lips.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen and red. Her breathing is ragged. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want and fury.
She's beautiful and furious, and I want to devour her.
I don't say anything. Don't warn her. Don't ask permission.
My hand slides up her thigh, rough and deliberate, pushing the silk dress higher. Her skin is hot under my palm, smooth and perfect, and when my fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hip, she gasps against my mouth.
Good.
I want her gasping. Want her wrecked. Want her to feel a fraction of what she does to me.
Her nails scrape down my chest. The sharp sting makes me groan, and I bite down on her bottom lip in response.
She makes a sound that’s a half-moan, half-curse, and her hips buck forward, seeking friction.
I give it to her.
My thigh pushes between her legs, pressing up hard, and she breaks the kiss to gasp my name.
"William—"
"Don't." My voice comes out rough. "Don't fucking talk."
I want her mindless. Want her beyond words.
My hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back so I can get to her throat. I bite down on the pulse point, hard enough that she'll feel it tomorrow, hard enough to mark.
Mine.
The thought comes unbidden and wrong, and I don't fucking care.
Her hands are everywhere, pulling at my shirt, scratching down my back, gripping my shoulders. She's as desperate as I am, all that careful control shattered into nothing.
I shove the dress higher, bunching it around her waist. My hand finds bare skin, the curve of her ass, and I grip hard enough to make her arch.
She gasps.
The zipper at the back of her dress comes down in one hard pull. The silk falls open, exposing smooth skin and the black lace underneath.