Chapter 7
Logan
Her face goes white, and something primitive and possessive claws up my throat.
She's mine to protect now. Mine to keep.
Mine to corrupt if that's what it takes to keep her alive.
The thought should horrify me—the priest in me should be screaming.
But all I feel is a dark satisfaction at the idea of marking her so thoroughly that anyone who looks at her will know she belongs to an O'Neill. If anyone tries to take her from me, they’ll learn exactly why I stopped believing in forgiveness.
I reach out and pry the flimsy pad from her grip.
Her fingers are stiff against the wire spiral. She lets it go without a fight.
“I didn’t put it there,” she whispers. Her voice shakes.
“I know,” I say. I toss it onto the coffee table. It lands with a soft slap. “She did. To hide it. Before she was killed.”
“Well, I didn’t think she did it after.”
I blink. This woman is something else. I don’t have much experience in this area, but I would say that most women would be in full meltdown by now, not cracking jokes and tucking into ham sandwiches wrapped in cheap napkins.
She takes a bite of the sandwich. She chews slowly, eyes fixed on the notebook.
I watch her throat work as she swallows. A fierce need to stand between her and the door grips me.
“Eat up,” I say. “You’ll need the energy.”
I pick up the book again. The spiral wire is bent. I flip the cover open.
Handwritten columns fill the first page. Dates. Amounts. Names. I recognize three of them immediately. Judges. Politicians. A high-ranking Garda officer.
It is a ledger of bribes. A map of corruption in the city that connects the bankers to the families.
“Well?” Nuala asks. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Is it bad?”
“It’s worse than bad,” I say. “It’s leverage.”
I close the book and place it next to me on the coffee table. Shit just leveled up a notch.
“They killed her for it,” she says, slowly. “Because she didn’t have it or because she knew what was in it?”
“Both, maybe. She died protecting what was in it.”
“By slipping it into a random handbag?”
“She put a target on your back trying to protect her own.”
“So I’m going to end up dead on a toilet somewhere.” Her voice goes up an octave as panic sets in.
“Look at me,” I command.
She doesn’t immediately obey. Her gaze darts to the window, to the door, anywhere but my face. Panic scatters her focus. I reach out and cup her jaw. Her skin burns against my palm. I apply enough pressure to force her head up until her green eyes lock onto mine.
“You aren’t going to die in a bathroom,” I say. My voice drops, rough and low. “You aren’t going to die at all. Not while I’m breathing.”
She swallows hard. Her pulse hammers against my fingertips where they rest on her neck. “You can’t promise that. You’re just a man.”
“I’m an O’Neill,” I correct her. “So you listen to me. You stay in this room. You don’t open the door. You don’t go near the windows.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, voice shrill.
“To make a call. I need to know who shot up the Sailing Club and if it was connected to this book.”
“If it was connected, why did they wait so long? Also, why didn’t they ransack the place looking for it?”
My eyes narrow as I stare at her. Her observation is astute, clear-headed.
She is confusing. One minute, she looks like she is about to fall apart, and the next, she has rallied and focused.
It is sending my protective mode into overdrive.
I want to shelter her from all the bad things this world has to offer while testing her limits and seeing how much darkness she can take before she breaks.
I shake off the thought. Now isn’t the time to explore whatever twisted fascination is building between us.
“Maybe they didn’t have time,” I say. “They attacked a room full of guys who shoot back.”
She shakes her head. “This doesn’t make sense. It’s unconnected.”
“There are too many variables,” I argue, feeling alive at this debate for the first time since the fight last night. It’s the same thrill with her.
She puts the last bite of the sandwich down and stands up, glaring at me.
“Look. I get that you are some big underworld boss, or whatever, but I’m not stupid and can think rationally.
Maybe because you’re too close to this shit, you automatically assume everything is connected because maybe it usually is.
Maybe this big a coincidence doesn’t usually happen in the streets of Dublin.
I don’t know. Who the fuck cares? But don’t dismiss me because I’m not one of you.
” She jabs me in the chest, her green eyes flashing with a fire that makes my cock go hard.
I grip her wrist and pull her closer.
She gasps when she feels my hard-on digging into her hip, and instead of pulling away, her body goes still, like a deer sensing a predator. But her pupils dilate, and her breath catches. Fear and arousal. The combination is intoxicating.
“You feel what you do to me?” I murmur against her ear. “That's what happens when you challenge me, Nuala.”
She struggles to get out of my grip, but, for all her mental and emotional strength, she is weaker than I am, and it flares that protective streak again.
I stare down at her, watching the flush creep up her neck.
Fear and something else flicker across her face.
Something that makes my blood run hotter.
“Let go,” she says through gritted teeth.
I don’t. Not yet. I need her to understand what she’s dealing with. I reach out and do the things I’ve wanted to do since the car. I curl a lock of escaped hair behind her ear, letting my finger trace down the side of her neck. “You think I’m dismissing you?”
Her breathing is erratic. “Aren’t you?”
“No.” I loosen my grip but don’t release her. “I’m trying to keep you alive, Nuala. That means I need you to listen when I tell you something.”
“I’ll listen when you stop treating me like I’m an idiot.”
Fair point.
I let her wrist slip free and step back, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like kiss that defiant mouth of hers.
“You’re right,” I admit. “Maybe I’m seeing connections that aren’t there. But the woman put that book in your bag for a reason. She chose you.”
“She chose a random handbag that happened to be hanging in an office,” Nuala counters. “I wasn’t special. I was just there.”
And this Lisa wasn’t.
“Maybe. But now you’re stuck with it. And me.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. The defensive posture doesn’t hide the way she’s trembling. Shock is wearing off. Reality is setting in.
“I need to use the bathroom again,” she says quietly.
I nod and watch her disappear behind the bathroom door. As soon as the lock clicks, I pull out my phone.
Connor answers on the first ring. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Safe house near the canal. We’ve got a problem.”
“We? Who’s we?”
I glance at the closed bathroom door. “Fionnuala Quinn. She’s a waitress from the Sailing Club. She survived a massacre. Any idea yet who shot up the Sailing Club?”
Silence stretches down the line. Then, “The Sailing Club was shot up?”
“Are you serious right now?”
“I’ll call you back.”
He hangs up, and I stare at the phone in fury. How the fuck does he not know that the place he sent me to was the scene of a mass murder not that long ago? Someone is dropping the ball. Or perhaps he is otherwise engaged.
“Who are you talking to?” Nuala asks, coming back into the living area.
“My uncle. Connor O’Neill.” I wait to see what that name drop does. She recognizes it as surface-level. Everyone does. “He hung up.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad?”
“He’s finding out what he can about the shootout,” I lie. Telling a stranger that Connor O’Neill is the last to know about a fucking massacre in his city is not the best way to keep him on my side.
The phone rings, and I answer.
“The Sailing Club is cordoned off. Garda everywhere. Fifty-three bodies. You were there?”
“Yes, then I left to trail the SUV. Arms drop involving Paddy O’Rourke. Then I went back but got stuck in rush hour traffic. If I hadn’t, I’d have been there. Who was it?”
“Unclear yet. You’re with the only survivor?”
“Yes. She was in the bathroom when the shooting started.”
“And they didn’t do a sweep?”
“Nope.”
“Lucky girl,” he murmurs.
“Quite.” I look at the notebook and decide to keep it quiet for now. If Nuala is right and this isn’t connected, we need to deal with this separately.
“Stay where you are,” he orders. “Cillian is all over this.”
“And why wasn’t he before?” I ask innocently.
Connor growls. “That is none of your business, boy.”
“Found a lady friend, have we?” I say with a smile.
He hangs up.
I snort. I didn’t expect anything else, to be honest.
I put the phone down and turn back to Nuala. She’s watching me with those sharp green eyes that miss nothing.
“Your uncle doesn’t know who did it,” she says. Not a question.
“Not yet.”
“But he will.”
“He will.” I move to the kitchenette and pour myself a whiskey from the bottle I keep here. I don’t offer her one. She needs a clear head. So do I, but fuck it. “You should get some rest.”
“Rest.” She laughs. It’s bitter. “You’re having a laugh.”
“The couch pulls out. There are blankets in the cupboard.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“You will eventually.” I take a sip. The burn grounds me. “When you do, I’ll be awake.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because no one else will.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I set the glass down. “You want the truth?”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t. There’s something about her that pulls at me.
Something I can’t name. Maybe it’s the way she stood her ground when I grabbed her.
Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes when she called me out.
Maybe it’s because she reminds me of Chris—stubborn and brave and completely unaware of how fragile she is.