Chapter 8
Nuala
His gaze burns across my naked back like a brand.
I can feel every inch of attention he's paying me, the weight of his stare tracking the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist. The flat is cool, but his eyes make my skin feel like it's on fire. The part of me that knows better shouts at me to cover up. The dangerous part of me that likes the attention from such a powerful and dangerous man wins out, and I don’t move.
“I know you’re awake,” his quiet voice filters through the room.
“And?”
“And you should stop pretending you don’t want me looking.”
Heat floods through me, settling low in my belly. I roll onto my back, letting the blanket slip further. His jaw clenches as his gaze drops to my exposed breast. The raw hunger in those blue eyes makes my breath catch.
He rises from the chair and moves towards me with deliberate slowness.
I watch him approach like I’m watching a storm roll in—knowing it’s dangerous, knowing I should take shelter, but unable to look away.
He crouches next to the bed, his eyes on mine instead of on my breast. For the first time in a while, I want his gaze on my breast.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Nuala.”
“Maybe I’m tired of being safe.” The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him.
But it’s true. I’ve spent my entire life playing it safe—working shit jobs, scraping by, keeping my head down.
And where has it gotten me? Broke, alone, and nearly dead in a bathroom next to an already deceased woman.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I’m not asking for anything.” I hold his stare, refusing to back down. “I’m just lying here. You’re the one who can’t stop looking.”
Something dark flashes across his face. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I don’t pull the blanket up. I don’t cover myself.
He reaches out, his hand steady as a rock even though I can see the war raging behind his eyes.
His fingers hover inches from my skin, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating from them.
When he pulls the blanket up instead of touching me, disappointment crashes through me so hard I nearly whimper.
“You have no idea the restraint I have, Nuala.”
“Tell me.”
He gives me a quizzical stare before the shutters fall down. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns away.
“Who are you, Logan O’Neill?” I ask, sitting up, keeping the blanket over me this time.
He pauses, back still facing me.
I watch his shoulders tense under the white shirt that stretches across his broad back. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire.
“Someone who shouldn’t be looking at you the way I am,” he finally says, his voice low and rough.
“That’s not an answer.”
He turns back to face me, and the raw honesty in his expression makes my breath catch. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”
With that, he unbuttons his shirt as he walks to the bathroom and pulls it off.
My breath catches in my throat when I see the tattoo of a Celtic cross inked across his back. I want to touch it. I want to lick it. I want to claw my nails down it.
The door shuts, and I hear the shower running.
He hasn't locked the door. The oversight feels deliberate.
A test, maybe. Or an invitation. I can picture him in there, water streaming over all that inked skin, his hands moving over his body the way I want mine to.
The thought of slipping in there, of pressing my naked body against his back, makes my thighs clench.
He'd probably push me against the shower wall and…
I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood.
But what does that make me apart from a woman on the run from someone who wants me dead?
I close my eyes and force myself to lie back down. My skin feels too tight. My pulse thrums in places it shouldn’t.
What the fuck am I doing?
Twenty-four hours ago, my biggest problem was whether to pay for heating or food. Now I’m lying naked in a strange flat with a dead woman’s secrets in my bag and a man who looks at me like he wants to devour me, standing between me and a bullet.
The shower cuts off. I hold my breath, listening to the sounds of him moving around in there. Water dripping. A towel being pulled from the rack.
The door opens, and he emerges with the towel wrapped around his waist. Water beads on his chest, trailing down through the dark ink that covers his torso.
I catalog every ridge of muscle, every shadow, every intricately linked tattoo that marks his chest way past where I thought it would end.
They disappear under the low-slung towel, and I have to physically restrain myself from leaping at him.
“Go back to sleep, Nuala.”
Logan moves to the kitchenette and grabs a bottle of water. The muscles in his back shift under that massive Celtic cross. He turns slowly, knowing my gaze is on him. His eyes meet mine as he prowls back to me and holds the water out.
“Stay hydrated,” he murmurs and then moves across to a set of drawers built into the wall. He pulls out a tight black tee and black jeans.
“Are you kidding me?” I snap, my temper rising. “You have clothes here you could’ve lent me to sleep in?”
He smiles as he turns back to face me. “You didn’t ask.”
I stare at him, jaw dropped. “You absolute bastard.”
His smile turns into something wicked. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I bet you have.” I sit up fully, clutching the blanket to my chest. “You made me strip off for nothing.”
“Not for nothing.” His gaze drags over me slowly.
Heat floods my face. I want to throw something at him, but everything is out of reach. “You’re a psychopath.”
“That’s been suggested.” He pulls the black tee over his head, covering up all that inked skin. The fabric stretches across his chest, clinging to every ridge of muscle. “But I’m your psychopath now. Get used to it.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He drops the towel without warning, and I quickly avert my eyes, but not before I catch a glimpse of a thick cock in a semi-hard state that makes my mouth water.
“Christ,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Not quite,” he murmurs.
I hear the rustle of fabric, a zipper. “Sleep, Nuala, unless you have something else you want to do.”
“Leave?” I grit out.
“Not that. I let you walk out of here, you’re dead.”
I open my eyes to see he is back in his chair, gun held loosely on his lap.
I shove my face into the pillow to muffle a scream of frustration.
The man is infuriating. He sits there like a stone gargoyle, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the door.
The gun rests on his thigh like an extension of his hand.
It should scare me. Being in a locked room with an armed killer who thinks I’m a loose end should have me clawing at the walls.
Instead, my heart rate slows.
I peek over the edge of the blanket. The streetlights outside cast long shadows across the floor, slicing over his face.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t check his phone.
He just waits with the kind of patience that is scary.
My eyelids grow heavy. I fight the urge to sleep, but the adrenaline crash hits hard.
The rhythmic hum of the dryer acts like a lullaby I don’t want.
I shift on the couch, pulling the blanket higher to cover my shoulder.
Logan doesn’t move. He stares at the door like he expects it to burst open.
I close my eyes. Darkness takes me.
The nightmare slams into me.
The club. The bodies. The woman on the toilet.
I sit up fast. The blanket falls to my waist. I clutch it back up. The armchair facing the door is empty. My heart kicks against my ribs. “Logan?”
“I’m here.”
I whip my head around, blinking in the morning light. Logan stands by the kitchenette. He holds two mugs. He looks fresh, alert, like he didn’t spend the night watching a door.
“You slept,” he says. He walks over and places a mug on the coffee table. “Drink.”
I look at the tea. Steam rises from it. I look at him.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter.” He sits on the table, harmless in appearance but heavy with threat. “We have work to do.”
I rub my face. My skin feels tight. “I need my clothes.”
He points to a neat stack of laundry on the small table.
He washed them. He dried them. He folded them. The domestic act clashes with the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.
I stare at the pile, then at him. “Turn around.”
He smirks, taking a sip from his mug. “Make me.”
“I hate you.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Nuala. Maybe one day, you will believe it.”