Chapter 39
Logan
Two days after I killed Brennan, I stare at Nuala over the kitchen island. She is lost in thought and picking at her food.
“Is it disgusting?” I ask, indicating the roast beef sandwiches I made to try to cheer her up. Something is weighing heavily on her mind, but she’s not talking.
“What?” She looks up and then down at the sandwiches. “God, no. These are delicious. Proper roast beef, still slightly warm, melted butter, thick, gorgeous bread. Shut the fuck up, is it disgusting?”
“Then talk to me, Nuala, or I’m going to start thinking it’s me.”
She frowns. “That what’s you?”
“Why you are so unhappy.”
Her eyes widen. “I’m not unhappy, you moron. I’m pissed off.”
“Why?”
“Who the hell killed Aisling?” she spits out. “It’s bugging me, like a loose tooth I keep prodding.”
I blink rapidly, trying to catch up with this blindsiding comment. “Well, I guess we have to assume it was Cathal.”
“But she was holding the notebook for him. It doesn’t make sense.”
The notebook. That cheap, flimsy book that has blown Dublin apart in the last seventy-two hours. I’m starting to loathe the sound of the words ‘the notebook.’
I sigh and rub a hand over my face. “Sorry,” she says. “I know I’m being annoying.”
“No, you are definitely not being annoying. Maybe there is something on the USB. A CCTV that picked something up.”
“Could you call Connor and ask him if Dave found anything?”
I smile at her and move around to kiss the top of her head. “Anything for the future Mrs. Logan O’Neill.”
She shoots me a coy look, “I still can’t get used to that.”
“Get used to it,” I murmur, my lips brushing her temple. “You’re stuck with me.”
I pull away and grab my phone off the counter. I dial Connor. He answers on the first ring, background noise suggesting he’s still in the thick of the cleanup.
“Yeah?”
“Did Dave find anything on the Sailing Club drives about Aisling?” I ask, watching Nuala. Her green eyes lock onto me, intense and demanding. “Nuala won’t let it go.”
Connor grunts. “Aisling? The woman in the bathroom?”
“Yeah.”
“It was O’Rourke. There is a clip of him entering and exiting the ladies’ room that day.”
“O’Rourke,” I say with a frown at Nuala. “Why him?”
“Sending a message to Cathal, apparently.”
“Meaning?”
“Who knows? Find him and ask him.” Connor hangs up, and I grimace.
“Well, I guess that solves that then,” Nuala says. “She financed the arms deal for Cathal, and this O’Rourke didn’t want to leave loose ends.”
“That’s very specific,” I say with a slow smile.
“I’m learning how this shit works. If I’m wrong, O’Rourke can correct me if he ever resurfaces. If he doesn’t, who gives a shit? I found out what I wanted to know.”
“You are probably right. He didn’t need the notebook, so he wasn’t looking for it. She was simply an end to tie up.”
She takes another huge bite of the sandwich, chewing with a ferocity that makes my dick twitch. A week ago, the mention of a hitman cleaning up loose ends in a ladies’ room would have sent her spiraling. Now, she swallows the violence along with the beef.
“You’re adapting fast,” I say, circling the island to stand behind her.
“Have to,” she replies, swallowing. “Sink or swim, right?”
I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. Her body fits against mine like a missing puzzle piece. “You swam. You swam through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.”
She turns in my hold, her hands resting on my chest. The diamond ring flashes under the kitchen lights, a beacon of ownership. “Clean? I don’t feel clean. I feel... hardened.”
“Good.” I run my thumb over her bottom lip, catching a crumb of bread. “Soft gets you killed in this city. Hard keeps you alive.”
Her eyes search mine, green and clear. The fear that used to live there is gone, replaced by a steel spine I always knew existed. She isn’t just surviving anymore. She is thriving.
“So what now?” she asks. “We just... live?”
“We live,” I confirm, dropping my hand to grip her hip. “We get married. We run this city. We make sure no one ever threatens us again.”
“Sounds boring in comparison.”
I laugh, a rough sound that vibrates in my chest. “I promise to keep things interesting.”
She smirks, sliding her hand down to the buckle of my belt. “Prove it.”
“On your knees,” I murmur, shoving my hand into her hair as she lowers herself.
She doesn’t hesitate. Her knees hit the tile floor with a thud that echoes in the large room. I watch her descend, the movement fluid and submissive. My grip on her blonde hair tightens, angling her face up to mine.
“Good girl,” I growl.
She frees me, her eyes locking onto mine as she wraps her hand around my length. She opens her mouth, taking me deep, and I groan, my hips moving forward instinctively.
This is the woman who flinched at shadows a week ago. Now she swallows me whole while analyzing hitmen.
She hums against me, the vibration traveling straight to my spine. I watch her work, the rhythm of her head, the way her hair falls over her face until I brush it back to see her cheeks hollowing. There is no fear in her touch. Only hunger.
The priesthood feels like a different lifetime. I worshipped a silent God then. Now, looking down at Nuala claiming me on the kitchen floor, I have a new devotion.
“Deeper,” I command.
She obeys, taking me to the back of her throat, her eyes watering but never leaving mine. This isn’t just sex. It’s a pact. We survive the blood, and we thrive in the pleasure.
Stepping back, I pull her to her feet, flicking the button on her jeans.
She wiggles out of them, pulling her panties down as well.
I grip her hips and hoist her up, planting her bare arse on the cold quartz of the island.
She doesn’t flinch at the temperature change.
She spreads her legs, inviting me into the space between her thighs.
I don’t waste time with preliminaries. I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt in a single motion. Her head falls back, a sharp cry tearing from her throat, but she doesn’t pull away. She arches into it, meeting my thrust with a desperation that matches my own.
My hands find her waist, holding her steady as I set a brutal pace. The friction burns, grounding me in the here and now.
“Look at me,” I say, stopping the movement abruptly.
She lifts her head. Her pupils eclipse the green of her iris.
“Say it,” I demand, pressing deep enough to ensure she feels every inch of me.
“I’m yours,” she gasps, her breath hitching.
“Damn right.” I move again, harder this time, driving the point home.
“Logan,” she pants, her hips snapping up to meet mine. “I’m close.”
“Take it,” I say.
I don’t slow down. I watch her face contort, the way her body stiffens and shakes as the orgasm hits her. She screams, a raw sound that fills the kitchen.
Seeing her unravel breaks my control. I groan, driving into her one last time before releasing inside her. The sensation burns through me, absolute and final.
I rest my forehead against hers, supporting my weight on my arms so I don’t crush her. Heavy breaths fill the silence between us.
“Still bored?” I ask, my voice rough.
She laughs breathlessly, her chest heaving against mine. She pushes a strand of hair from her face. “Ask me again in five minutes.”
I pull away and adjust my clothes while she hops off the counter. She wobbles slightly. I catch her arm to steady her. Always.