Chapter 20
Nuala
Idon’t think. I move. I do what Logan tells me. I don’t argue. I don’t fight. I obey.
That’s what will keep me alive.
He will keep me alive.
My feet pound against the wet asphalt. Rain pelts my face, blinding me, but I focus on the lights ahead.
Logan’s hand presses against my lower back, urging me faster.
We reach the SUV. The back door swings open.
I don’t hesitate. I dive into the backseat, scrambling across the leather.
Logan follows, his large body filling the remaining space. He slams the door.
“Go!” he roars.
The engine growls. Tires spin on the slick surface, gaining traction. We lurch forward, speed pressing me into the upholstery.
I gasp for air. My lungs burn.
Logan grabs my face. His hands are rough, frantic. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Are you?”
He gives me a strange look, but then nods. “Fine.”
I clutch the canvas bag to my chest. The plastic pharmacy bag crinkles inside it. My knuckles ache from gripping the fabric so tight.
“We’re going to your uncle’s,” I say. It’s a statement of defeat.
Logan looks out the tinted window at the blurring streetlights. “Penthouse is compromised. We have no choice.”
“He threatened to kill me earlier.”
Logan turns back to me. His hand finds my knee, squeezing hard. “And you threatened to shoot him in the face. I think you’re even.”
The driver snorts in surprise but keeps his mouth shut.
I inhale sharply and then slowly breathe out. “Someone tried to kill me.”
“Or me,” Logan says. “Maybe I gave them bad priestly advice.”
I glare at him. He is smirking. “Ha-Ha. Funny. Fucking funny ex-Father Logan.”
His gaze roams over my face, checking for blood or glass I missed.
“You’re vibrating,” he says. “It’s the cold.
” A lie. The climate control hums, blasting heat, but my teeth chatter.
A bullet tore through a window inches from where I stood.
That reality settles in my gut like a stone.
Logan drags me across the leather seat until our thighs press together.
His heat seeps into my side. It grounds me.
“Connor’s estate is secure,” he says. “Walls. Guards. No lines of sight from the road.”
“Safe with the man I held at gunpoint.”
“He respects backbone. Just don’t push your luck.” The SUV takes a sharp turn. I grip the door handle. City lights fade, replaced by the looming shadows of ancient trees. We leave the noise of Dublin behind for something quieter and likely deadlier.
We slow down. Massive iron gates swing inward. The house sits at the end of a long, red-bricked drive. It isn’t a house. It is a Georgian mansion that looks like it swallowed the moonlight. It looks expensive and cold. The car stops. The driver kills the engine.
“Ready?” Logan asks.
“No.”
“Tough.” He opens the door. The winter wind rushes in. “Stay glued to me and maybe keep the gun threats to a minimum this time.”
I climb out of the SUV. The mansion blocks out the night sky, a monolith of stone and money. Steps lead to a massive double door.
Logan grips my elbow. He marches me up the steps. I clutch the canvas bag against my chest.
“Relax,” Logan murmurs near my ear.
“Easy for you to say.”
The door opens before we knock. A guard in a dark suit nods to Logan but eyes me with suspicion. We step inside. The foyer dwarfs my entire apartment building. A crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, casting fractured light over the black and white marble floor.
Connor strides down the hallway. He holds a tumbler of whiskey. He looks at me, then at Logan.
“You bring chaos wherever you go.” He turns his gaze to me. I stiffen. I fight the urge to hide behind Logan. I force my feet to stay planted on the marble.
“Welcome to the fortress, girl. Try not to shoot anyone while you’re here.”
My face heats. “I make no promises.”
Connor grins. It makes me shiver. “I like her.”
Logan tightens his grip on my arm. “She’s been through a lot. We need a room.”
“Guest room three.”
Logan nods and steers me up the stairs. I glance back at Connor. He watches us with cold calculation. I face forward. This place isn’t safety. It is a prison with silk sheets.
We reach the top of the stairs. My legs shake from the adrenaline crash. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, following Logan down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men who probably killed people before breakfast.
“Third door,” Logan says, his voice low.
I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat feels tight, like I swallowed glass from the shattered windows. The image keeps replaying, the explosion of glass, Logan’s weight slamming into me.
The reality of it hits differently now that we’re not running. Now that I have time to think about how close that bullet came. How if Logan hadn’t tackled me when he did, I’d be dead. Just another body to join those already gone.
Logan opens the door to a room that’s bigger than my entire flat. A four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in emerald velvet. Matching curtains frame windows that overlook manicured gardens lit by strategically placed spotlights. Everything screams old money and older violence.
“Sit,” Logan orders, guiding me to the edge of the bed.
I sink onto the mattress. It’s obscenely soft. The canvas bag slips from my grip, landing on the carpet with a soft thud. I stare at it, focusing on the mundane detail because if I don’t, I’ll start screaming.
Logan crouches in front of me. His hands cover mine, squeezing gently. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes up. His face fills my vision—sharp lines, blue eyes, dark with concern, and something else I can’t name.
“You’re safe now,” he says.
“Am I?” The words come out harshly. “Someone just tried to kill me. Again. We’re in your uncle’s house. The same uncle who could decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His thumbs brush across my knuckles. “Because if he touches you, I’ll kill him myself.”
The matter-of-fact way he says it should terrify me. Instead, it loosens something in my chest. I can breathe again.
“You can’t kill your uncle.”
“Watch me.” He stands, pulling me up with him. “Bathroom’s through there. Take a shower. Warm up.”
I glance at the door he’s pointing to. “I have no clothes again.”
He smiles. “That is your biggest concern? At least you have your toothbrush.”
I press my lips together, fighting the urge to laugh at the absurdity. My biggest concern should be the sniper who nearly put a bullet through my skull, not the fact that I’m standing in a crime lord’s mansion without a change of underwear.
“You’re right,” I mutter, grabbing the canvas bag. “At least I have my fucking toothbrush.”
I storm into the bathroom before he can see the tears threatening to spill. The door closes with a soft click, sealing me in a space that’s probably bigger than my bedroom at home. Marble everywhere. Gold fixtures. A bathtub that you could sleep in.
I set the bag on the counter and grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. My face is pale, my eyes too wide. Rain-soaked hair plasters my cheeks. I look like a drowned rat who just escaped death.
Because I did.
The shaking starts in my hands and spreads through my entire body. I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. I press my forehead against my knees and finally let the tears come.
Silent sobs rack my body. I bite my fist to muffle the sounds. I don’t want Logan to hear. Don’t want him to see me break down again. But I can’t stop. The fear, the adrenaline, the sheer terror of nearly dying—again—crashes over me in waves.
The bathroom door opens.
I don’t look up. The door clicks shut behind him.
“Don’t,” I choke out. “Just... don’t.”
He sinks down beside me, his back against the wall. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t try to comfort me with empty words. He just sits there, a solid presence in my peripheral vision.
“I should’ve listened to you,” I whisper. “About staying in the apartment.”
“How does that make sense?”
“We left to go to the pharmacy, and then we got shot at when we got back. They must’ve seen us.”
“But they already knew where to shoot,” he says reasonably.
“I could’ve died.”
“But you didn’t.”
I lift my head, wiping my wet face with shaking hands. “Thanks to you. How do you do this? How do you live with constant danger?”
He’s silent for a moment. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the answer. “You get used to it. Or you pretend you do until the pretending becomes real.”
“That’s depressing.”
“That’s survival.” He finally looks at me. His blue eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. “Take your shower and then get in bed. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Where are you going?”
“To figure this shit out once and for all.”
He stands and leaves, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes my chest tight. The silence presses in. I force myself to stand, my legs wobbling like a newborn foal’s. The shower calls to me, promising warmth I desperately need.
I strip off my damp clothes and place them over the radiator.
The shower is one of those fancy rainfall types.
I turn it on, adjusting the temperature until steam fills the space.
I step under the spray. The heat hits my skin, and I hiss at the initial shock.
Then my muscles start to unwind, tension bleeding out with each passing second.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water pound against my neck and shoulders.
My mind won’t shut off. It keeps replaying the glass exploding, Logan’s weight crushing me to the floor. The bullet that would’ve hit me if I’d been standing there one second longer.
Someone wants me dead that badly.
The thought makes my stomach churn. I’m nobody. A broke bartender who can’t even afford to heat her flat. Yet here I am, standing in a mansion shower while a sniper hunts me like I’m worth something.
The notebook. They have to know I’ve got it by now.
I grab the expensive-looking shampoo and work it through my hair, scrubbing harder than necessary. The scent is lavender and something else I can’t identify. Rich people smell.
I rinse and repeat with conditioner.
When I’m done, I turn the water off. The silence rushes back in, heavy and oppressive. I grab a towel from the heated rail and wrap it around myself.
The mirror is fogged. I wipe a hand across it, revealing my reflection in streaks. My eyes are red-rimmed, but the panic has receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I grab the toothbrush and paste from my bag, brushing my teeth like it’s going to solve all my problems.
When I emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in just the towel, I find Logan hasn’t returned yet. The room feels too big, too empty without his presence.
I climb onto the massive bed and burrow under the duvet. My body sinks into the mattress, and despite the fear, the adrenaline, the knowledge that someone wants me dead, my eyes grow heavy.
I fight it. I need to stay awake until Logan returns. Need to know what he’s planning, what Connor said, whether we’re any closer to figuring out who wants me dead.
But exhaustion wins.
I drift, caught between waking and sleeping, my mind replaying fragments. The man with the thick neck. The crisp fifty. His gaze dropping to my nametag.