Chapter 11
Logan
Scanning the street, I don’t see anything untoward, so I hurry Nuala to the Mini.
She is scowling fiercely, but it just makes her look even more beautiful.
I want to back her against the car and kiss that scowl right off her face.
The thought hits me so hard I nearly stumble.
When did I become this man—the one who finds her anger as attractive as her fear?
“Where are we going now?” she asks, climbing in when I open the door for her.
“To my place.”
She hisses. “And we couldn’t have done that before?”
“Wasn’t safe.” I slam the door and wedge myself into the driver’s seat.
“And it is now?”
“Well, no, but, we are done running. I live in a secure apartment in Ballsbridge.”
“Your uncle—”
“Yes, but that’s kind of the point.”
“We’re trusting him now?” Her use of we makes me smile.
As if she’s chosen to tie her fate to mine instead of having it forced on her.
The thought does dangerous things to my pulse.
I’ve never been part of a ‘we’ with anyone who wasn’t blood or business.
But hearing it from her lips, in that exasperated tone, makes something primitive and possessive roar to life in my chest. “Yes and no. He wants you secured. I want you safe. You want to live.”
“And so the stars aligned,” she mutters as I fire up the engine.
I hit the road. The Mini rattles like it’s held together with duct tape and prayers. Nuala grips the door handle again, knuckles white.
“If we’re going to your place, won’t they expect that?” she asks.
“Yes. But Connor will have eyes on it. Anyone who tries to get in will be spotted.”
“So we’re using your uncle as security.”
“Exactly.” I check the rearview mirror. The street stays empty. Nuala shifts in her seat, hugging that canvas bag to her chest like a lifeline.
“What’s the plan when we get there?” she asks.
“I need to make some calls. Find out what O’Rourke’s involvement is beyond supplying weapons. And you need to rest.”
“I can’t rest when people are trying to kill me.”
“You can and you will.” I glance at her. The dark circles under her eyes make her look fragile. I hate it. “You’re no good to me exhausted.”
“No good to you,” she repeats, her voice flat but with an edge that cuts through me. “Is that all I am? Useful?”
The question catches me off guard, and for a moment I can’t breathe.
Useful? Christ, she’s so much more than that it terrifies me.
She’s under my skin, in my blood, making me want things I have no business wanting.
But I can’t tell her that. Can’t admit that somewhere between protecting her and wanting her, I’ve lost sight of where one ends and the other begins.
“You’re alive. That makes you more than useful.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”
She falls silent, staring out the window.
“Do you think Stacey killed the woman in the ladies’ room?” she asks suddenly.
My eyes narrow. “Do you?”
I watch her process the question. Her teeth catch her bottom lip.
The urge to pull over, to lean across and capture that lip between my teeth, is so strong I actually slow down.
I force my eyes back to the road before I do something stupid like crash this piece of shit car because I’m too busy imagining what those lips would taste like.
“I don’t know,” she finally says. “She seemed stressed, but not like murderous.”
“Money problems do that to people.” I take a left, heading toward the city center. “Makes them desperate. Desperate people make mistakes.”
“Like borrowing from the wrong person?”
“Exactly.”
I merge onto the main road. Traffic thickens around us. I keep my eyes moving—mirrors, side streets, the cars boxing us in. Nothing stands out, but that doesn’t mean we’re clear.
“If she owed money to whoever that book belongs to, maybe she thought stealing it would clear her debt. Or give her leverage.”
“Possibly. So she killed her and then didn’t find the book. Did she seem more panicked before you went on your break when you found the woman?”
Nuala shakes her head. “No, she seemed calmer.”
“Calmer…”
A few seconds tick by, and then Nuala’s hand lands on my thigh, her palm burning through the denim like a brand.
The contact sends electricity shooting straight to my cock, and I nearly jerk the wheel hard enough to send us into oncoming traffic.
Every nerve ending in my body focuses on that single point of contact—her small hand on my leg, innocent and devastating.
“Sorry!” she says, removing it to my annoyance. “What if Stacey was the one who put the book in my bag? What if she found it on the woman and then hid it in an unsuspecting place?”
I keep my eyes on the road as I reach over and grip her hand, placing it back on my thigh.
She struggles briefly, but when she can’t pull it back, she stops, resting it lightly, not suggestively.
The touch is innocent, careful, and it’s driving me insane.
I want her to unravel completely, want to see that careful control shatter.
So I move her hand higher, over the hard length of my dick, straining against denim, and cup her hand, forcing her fingers to squeeze me.
I go harder with a soft groan as she draws in a sharp breath. This is dangerous. Reckless. But I can’t bring myself to care.
“Logan,” she hisses, but doesn’t pull away. Her palm burns through the denim, and I want nothing more than to pull over and take what I want.
But I don’t. I keep driving, keep her hand where it is, and let the tension build between us like a live wire.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice rough. Having her hand on me while we talk about murder and betrayal should feel wrong.
Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Like she belongs here, belongs to me. The thought is as dangerous as it is intoxicating.
“That makes more sense. Stacey killed the woman for the book, took it, and hid it in the first place she could think of. Your bag.”
“And then got killed anyway,” Nuala finishes. Her hand flexes against me, and I bite back a groan. “But why didn’t they search the club?”
“Because they didn’t know she had it.” I shift gears, and her hand moves with me. The friction is torture. “Stacey was the target. They assumed the book was safe with the woman who was already dead.”
“Connected,” she breathes. “You were right. Jesus.” She finally pulls her hand back, and I let her this time.
The loss of contact leaves me cold, aching, desperate for more.
I want to grab her hand again, want to pull over and show her exactly what she does to me.
But I don’t. The restraint is killing me, but she needs to choose this.
Choose me. “So we’re walking around with evidence that could bring down half of Dublin’s criminal network. That people have died for.”
“They must know it’s missing by now. It will be the only copy for security reasons.”
“And that’s why they are after me. Not because I am the survivor of their massacre, but because they know I have the book.”
“Not necessarily,” I counter. “How would they know? I would stick with them wanting to take you out because they think you can ID them.”
“Logan,” her voice croaks, and I snap my head to the side.
She is staring at me, her bottom lip trembling.
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” I murmur, placing my hand on her thigh now, and she grips it tightly, her fingers interlacing with mine like a lifeline.
She turns her head away so I can’t see her tears, but I caught the shine of them in her eyes.
The sight makes something primal and protective roar to life in my chest. I want to pull over and hold her until she stops shaking.
Want to promise her things I have no business promising.
Want to kill every bastard who made her feel this afraid.
I keep my hand on her thigh as I navigate the streets toward Ballsbridge. My thumb traces small circles against the fabric of her skirt, and I feel her trembling ease slightly under the touch. She doesn’t pull away this time.
“We’re almost there,” I say quietly.
The apartment building comes into view. It’s a modern block with security gates and cameras covering every angle.
I pull into the underground car park, scanning for Connor’s men, and spot two immediately.
One leans against a pillar near the entrance, the other sits in a black Audi with the engine running.
“They’re here,” I mutter.
Nuala tenses. “Your uncle’s men?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. They’re here to watch, not grab you.”
I hope.
I park the Mini in my designated spot and kill the engine. The silence feels oppressive after the constant rattle of the car. I turn to Nuala. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry now.
“Stay close to me. Don’t speak to anyone. If something goes sideways, you run.” The thought of another man even looking at her makes my jaw clench. She’s mine to protect, mine to touch, mine to comfort. The possessiveness should disturb me. Instead, it feels as natural as breathing.
“Run where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here.”
She swallows hard but nods.
I get out and circle to her side, opening the door before she can. She takes my offered hand, and I pull her up. Her fingers are cold in mine. I don’t let go as I lead her toward the elevator.
The man by the pillar straightens when he sees me. I give him a jaunty wave, which he scowls at.
Smirking, I stab the button for the top floor, and as we ascend in the confined space, I’m hyperaware of her beside me—the scent of her skin, the way she leans slightly into me without seeming to realize it.
Taking her to my home feels significant in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
This is my sanctuary, my private space. And I’m bringing her into it like she belongs there. Like she’s already mine.