Chapter 9
Logan
Nuala glares at me and wraps the blanket around her.
She climbs off the bed and grabs the pile of clothes, taking them into the bathroom to dress.
I smile. She could have very well done that last night, yet she chose to strip in front of me.
But she's learning to protect herself from me, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
I take another sip of tea and then shoot to my feet, hand on my gun, when there is a knock at the door.
“Nuala, stay in there,” I say quietly as I place the mug down and walk towards the door, sticking to the hinge side as I inch along the wall. When I reach it, I look through the peephole and narrow my eyes.
Unlocking the door, I swing it open. “Aran. What are you doing here?”
My older brother, by five years, stares down at me. It has always fucking bugged me that he has an extra two inches of height added onto my six four.
He grins and shoves his way past me into the flat. “Connor sent me.”
I slam the door shut and throw the deadbolt. My patience, already worn thin by the night’s events, snaps.
“Since when do I need a supervisor?” I ask, turning to face him.
Aran laughs. The sound booms in the small space, grating on my nerves. “Since you decided to vanish with the only witness to the biggest hit Dublin has seen in a decade. Connor wants you with him.”
“You mean he wants her with him. Not a fucking chance.”
He walks to the coffee table and spots the two mugs.
Before he can comment on the unmade bed, the bathroom door clicks. Nuala steps out. She looks put together in her uniform, though the white shirt is wrinkled. She blinks when she spots Aran. Her eyes dart to me, then to the giant standing in the middle of the room.
Aran turns. He looks her over with clinical detachment. “Get your things together, sweetheart. You’re coming with me.” The endearment from Aran's lips makes my jaw clench.
I step between them, cutting off his line of sight to her. The move is instinctive, possessive. Mine to protect. Mine to watch over. The thought should disturb me. It doesn't. My hand hovers near the gun tucked into the back of my jeans. “Like fuck she is.”
Aran's eyebrows rise. “Protective, aren't we?”
I don't dignify that with a response. But I don't move either.
“You can come too,” he says as if he’s speaking to a child.
I clench my fist and wish, just once, I could smash his fucking face in.
But he would flatten me. And that is not a good look in front of Nuala, who I swore I would protect.
“We aren’t going to Connor’s,” I state. The finality in my tone gets his attention.
“You want to go against a direct order?”
“Look, Aran. I don’t expect you to keep up, but you have half a story. Taking her to Connor’s now would be a mistake. If they know who she is and who has her, they will be expecting it.”
Aran frowns. After a second, to my surprise, he nods slowly. “Okay, so what’s the play? What do I tell him?”
“Tell him we weren’t here,” I say, keeping my body angled between him and Nuala.
Aran stares at me. He weighs the lie. He knows I’m holding back, but he also knows I’m right about the exposure. Bringing a witness to the main house when we don’t know who or why they shot up the club is too risky.
“He won’t like it,” Aran grunts.
“He doesn’t have to like it. He just has to believe it.”
Aran looks over my shoulder at Nuala. She stands rigid by the bathroom door, clutching her apron like a shield. He looks back at me and nods once.
“If this blows back on me, I’m taking you down with me.”
“Understood.”
He turns and walks out. The heavy door shuts with a click.
Nuala lets out a breath. Her shoulders drop. “Your brother.”
“Arsehole extraordinaire,” I say. I move to the coffee table and snatch the notebook, shoving it into the back of my pants, under the gun.
“We aren’t staying,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“No. Connor isn’t patient. We’ve got until Aran gets back to Connor’s before he tracks my phone or sends a crew to drag us in. We need to move.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere that not even my own brother can find me.”
“Okay,” she draws it out, sounding worried.
I snatch the keys off the counter. Nuala hugs that canvas bag to her chest like it holds gold bars.
“Move,” I order.
I shove her toward the door. I don’t wait for her to ask questions.
We take the stairs. The urge to touch her is almost overwhelming—to feel the warmth of her skin through that thin shirt, to guide her with my palm pressed against the curve of her spine.
But I don't. The restraint is killing me.
Every step she takes, I want to close the distance between us, want to feel her body against mine.
We reach the basement level. The damp cold creates a chill on my skin.
I scan the concrete pillars. Nothing moves.
I bypass the Porsche and head toward an old Toyota Hilux parked in the corner.
Nuala raises an eyebrow when I open the passenger side, but she climbs in without fighting this time. She is learning.
I slide behind the wheel and fire the engine. I reverse out of the space and hit the ramp to the street.
Traffic is picking up with rush hour. I weave through a gap between a bus and a taxi. I check the rearview mirror. Clear.
“You didn’t answer me,” Nuala says. Her voice is shaky, but she holds my gaze. “Where can you go that your family won’t find you?”
“A small safehouse in a nice little residential suburb that no one knows about.”
“You hope.”
“I know.”
She nods and grips her bag tighter.
I check the rearview mirror again and frown as a silver Mercedes pulls in behind me. Could be nothing. Could be something.
I tap the brakes. The Mercedes mimics the move, keeping two car lengths back. Professional distance. Not a coincidence.
“Hold on,” I say.
I yank the wheel left, cutting across two lanes of traffic toward the exit ramp for Glasnevin. Horns blare. A taxi driver flips me the bird through his window.
Nuala grabs the dashboard. Her knuckles turn white. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.”
I watch the mirror. The silver sedan forces its way through the gap I made, ignoring the chaos.
“We have company,” I mutter, downshifting. The engine whines in protest. This truck handles like a brick, but it has torque.
“Is it your brother?” Nuala asks, twisting in her seat to look out the back window.
“Not likely.”
“But possible.”
I don’t answer, and that tells her what she needs to know.
I hit the roundabout at speed, tires screeching against the asphalt. I take the second exit, then immediately swerve into a narrow residential street lined with terraced houses.
I floor it over a speed bump. The suspension groans. The impact jars my spine, but I keep my eyes on the road ahead and the mirror behind. The Mercedes rounds the corner.
“Is it the same people as yesterday?” Nuala asks, her voice reasonably calm, considering.
“Could be.”
“Take your seatbelt off,” I mutter, eyes on the side mirror.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
She obeys.
“Now slide a little lower. If things don’t go how I hope, hit the deck. Fast.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice trembling now.
“Calling their bluff.” I pull over to Nuala’s side of the road in front of a house that has the curtains open and a small dog yapping at the window. The Mercedes crawls toward us. It slows. I slide my hand behind my back and grip the handle of the gun.
“Ready to move,” I warn Nuala.
She slides lower.
The sedan pulls level.
The window tint is illegal. Pitch black.
I stare right at the passenger window. The engine idles low.
A standoff on a quiet street with a dog barking in the window next to us.
They accelerate. The Mercedes swerves around the speed bump and disappears around the bend.
They didn’t want a scene. Not here. Not in daylight. I watch the empty road for ten seconds.
“They’ve gone.”
Nuala pulls herself upright. Her face is pale. “Who was it?”
I check the mirror one last time and pull away from the curb. “If it was Aran, or any of Connor’s men, he would have blocked me in.”
“So it’s the people who killed everyone?”
I hit the gas, taking a left turn to double back toward the main road.
“If we switched cars, how did they find us?” she whispers.
I grimace. There is only one explanation. “They were watching Connor’s and followed Aran.”
“Your brother led them to us?”
“Not intentionally, and he knows how to spot a tail. This was a synchronized hand off. Think of it like a baton race.”
“Cars placed all around the city,” she murmurs, looking over her shoulder.
I smile. She is quick to catch on. Clever and extremely sexy. “Smart girl,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. The praise makes her flush. I like seeing the color rise in her cheeks. It proves she’s alive.
I check the mirror again. Nothing but a delivery van and a family sedan.
“We need to get off the grid completely.” I take a sharp right, cutting through an industrial estate. The tires rumble over the uneven ground. “The Hilux is compromised.”
“We’re walking?” She looks at me, horrified. She glances down at her cheap shoes.
“No. We’re switching again.”
I pull into the back of a mechanic’s yard that has a handful of old cars for sale out front.
“Out,” I command.
She grabs her bag and scrambles out.
“You’re going to buy another car?” she asks, her eyes wide.
I nod once and lead her into the open garage.
An older man in dirty overalls looks up from the engine he’s tinkering with. “Morning.”
“Morning. That Mini out front, I want to buy it.”
He straightens up, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. “You want to take it for a test drive first.”
“No, I want to buy it and drive away.”
He blinks.
I hiss out a breath and pull the gun from the back of my pants. “Look, we don’t have time for this. Sell me the fucking Mini.”
Nuala gasps and shrinks away, trying to distance herself from the maniac waving a gun around.
The fear in her eyes cuts through me like a blade.
She's seeing the real me now—the killer, the enforcer, the man who solves problems with violence.
I should hate that she's afraid. Instead, part of me is darkly satisfied that she's finally seeing what I am.
No more pretending I'm anything other than a monster.
The mechanic’s eyes bulge.
He raises his grease-stained hands, the rag dropping to the concrete floor. “Take it easy,” he stammers, backing up until his legs hit a red tool chest.
“Keys.”
He points a shaking finger toward a pegboard on the wall. “Blue tag. Top row.”
“Logan,” Nuala hisses behind me. “You can’t just rob him.”
I ignore her moral outrage. I stride over and snatch the keys.
With my free hand, I dig into my pocket and pull out my bank card.
Yes, it’s traceable, but we need wheels, and this is our only option right now.
“I’m buying, not stealing,” I say, holstering the Glock.
“Paperwork can wait. Ring it up, fella.”
The mechanic fumbles with the card reader. His hands shake so badly that he nearly drops it on the concrete. I shove my card in and bash in the PIN. I don’t even look at how much it just cost me.
“Receipt?” he stammers.
“Keep it.”
I grab Nuala’s arm. She feels rigid under my grip. I pull her toward the faded red Mini.
“Get in,” I say.
She wrenches her arm free. “You just paid with a card.”
“I know. That is why we need to move.” I squeeze into the driver’s side.
My knees hit the dashboard. The seat won’t go back far enough.
This car is a joke for a man my size, but it puts me close to her.
Too close. The confined space makes me hyperaware of every breath she takes, every shift of her body.
I jam the key in the ignition. It turns over with a high-pitched whine.
Nuala throws her bag into the footwell as she climbs in and slams the passenger door. She glares at me.
“They don’t know which car I bought.”
“Until they interrogate that poor old man,” she snaps. “Logan, this is ridiculous. Let’s just go to the Garda and explain—”
“No.”
I reverse out of the lot, checking the street. Clear. I floor it. The Mini rattles as we hit the tarmac.
“You’re making this up as you go,” she accuses.
“I’m adapting.”
I check the mirrors. Just a bus and a cyclist. I take a sharp left, heading away from the city center.
“Where are we going?” she asks. She rubs her arms.
“Still to the safe house.”
She sighs and rests her head against the headrest, closing her eyes as if she can will this nightmare away.
Her gesture is so vulnerable, so trusting despite everything, that it does something dangerous to my chest. She shouldn't trust me.
I'm exactly the kind of man she should run from.
But here she is, exhausted and afraid, putting her life in my hands.
The responsibility of that trust is terrifying. And dangerously addictive.