Chapter 13 Aran
Aran
Istare down at both men, dead in the kitchen. How did they think this was going to end?
I hold the position for a few minutes longer until I’m sure there is no one else about to make the stupidest mistake of their life before I crouch and check pulses I already know aren’t there. Both dead. Both stupid.
They knew she was here.
That is a fucking problem.
I pull out my phone and call the cleaning crew Connor keeps on retainer.
They answer on the first ring.
“I need a pickup,” I say, already moving. “Two bodies. Break-in gone wrong.”
“Location?”
I give the address. “Five minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Make it five.” I hang up and look at the mess in my kitchen.
One is sprawled half in, half out of the back door, blood spreading under him in a dark sheet across the tile. The other is on his side by the island, eyes open, one hand still curled around the crowbar he was stupid enough to bring into my house like that was going to do anything for him.
The back door frame is scraped where they forced it.
They knew Aoife was here.
That means a leak is active. Hotel, car, house. Somewhere in that chain, someone knew Aoife was in the hotel corridor and that I took her.
Nessa. I keep coming back to the same conclusion. Nessa is the one who set this entire thing up, and she set Aoife up.
I crouch and go through their pockets. As expected, nothing. Pros who knew the likelihood of them walking out of here was slim.
The cleanup crew bangs once at the front door exactly seven minutes later. Late, but close enough that I don’t shoot them on principle. I let them in through the hall, three men in dark work clothes carrying cases that could belong to plumbers if anyone was looking.
“Kitchen,” I say.
They take one look and get on with it. No questions. That’s why Connor pays them. Efficient. Quiet. Grim.
Moving out of their way, I head upstairs and call out, “Aoife,” before I bang on the door. “It’s Aran. It’s safe.”
For a second, nothing happens.
Then I hear the en-suite door open. A beat later, the bedroom lock clicks. The door cracks an inch.
One green eye appears through the gap. Wild. Suspicious. Smart enough not to trust shit on blind faith. The toilet brush follows, and I smile.
“It’s me,” I say.
“No offense, but that doesn’t mean much.”
I push my empty hand up where she can see it. I shove the gun in the back of my pants. “The threat is handled.”
“Handled how?”
I look at her. She looks at me. I’m not lying to her face again by omission if I can help it, but there’s timing to this stuff.
“They’re dead,” I say.
The door opens wider. She stands there in my t-shirt, bare legs, bare feet, hair loose around her face. She’s pale as fuck.
“You killed them.”
“Yes.”
Her throat works. “In the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
She closes her eyes for a second. “Jesus.”
I wait. I don’t touch her. I don’t crowd her.
“Were they here for me?” she asks quietly.
“Yes.”
That lands hard. I watch it happen. Her face goes still in that way people do when the fear is too big to process in one go.
Her fingers tighten on the toilet brush. Not because she’s going to use it. Because it’s the only thing in reach, and her body needs something to hold.
“Who were they?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
“But they knew I was here, and they just walked into your house, like the door was wide open.”
“It wasn’t.”
“So what? They broke in?”
“Something like that.”
“Why isn’t your house more secure?”
“It is. They knew what they were doing.”
“Like most criminals who break down doors and come inside?”
“It’s rare,” I point out. “They also knew they weren’t walking out of here.”
She closes her eyes for a moment. “So why did they come?”
“To test me. To see if they could get past. To see what I’d do when pushed.” I keep my voice level. “To see if I’d hand you over to avoid the trouble. To see if you were worth sending men for.”
“And?” she whispers.
“It tells me something useful.”
“That people want me dead?”
“That whoever wants you thinks fast. You’re not sleeping in the guest room now.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning on sleeping at all.”
“Aoife.”
She grips the toilet brush tighter. “Where am I sleeping then?”
“With me.”
Her eyes widen, and she looks around my bedroom. “In here? Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” I step into the room and shut the door behind me. “It isn’t a suggestion,” I say.
Her glare could cut glass. She still has the toilet brush in hand, which would be funny if the rest of this day wasn’t such a complete fucking disaster.
I hold my hand out. “Give me that.”
“No.”
“Aoife.”
“No. Two men just came into your house for me. I’m keeping the brush.”
I look at the brush. I look at her. “Fine. Keep the weapon of choice.”
She swallows and glances past me toward the landing. “Are they still down there?”
“For about another minute.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the men cleaning up are almost done.”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “Cleaning up. You have men for that.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer it.
Instead, I say, “Get in bed. I need to reinforce the door.”
“We aren’t moving house?”
“To where? Your place?”
She sees the absurdity of that. The fact is, I could whisk her off to Connor’s guarded estate, but she would be no safer there from him.
He has made his feelings perfectly clear, and that is the last place I will take her.
She turns and crosses over to the bed, staring down at it for a moment before placing the toilet brush on the floor and climbing in.
“Do you need help with the door?” she asks in a small voice.
“I don’t.” I stare at her, curled up in my bed, in my tee, and my cock hardens.
Her gaze fixes on mine. I drag my eyes away from her before that look turns into something I can’t take back tonight.
“Stay there,” I say, rougher than I mean to.
I close the bedroom door and head back downstairs, grabbing the toolkit at the bottom of the stairs and carrying it through to the kitchen.
The clean-up crew are almost done, which is probably a record for them, and I place the toolkit on the counter.
The cleanup crew don’t even look at me as they head out.
I ignore them as well and look at the back door before stepping out to glare up at the external camera.
Not that it matters. Their faces won’t be on any databases.
Moving back inside, I set to work on fixing the lock, the cool metal pieces clicking into place under my fingers.
I drill holes for the new deadbolt, metal shavings dusting the floor like silver snow.
I’m not taking chances with Aoife here. Just me, I can handle whatever comes through that door with the weight of my Glock and years of knowing exactly where to put a bullet, and my fist, but she can’t solve her problems with a toilet brush and those wide green eyes that flash defiance even when her hands shake.
I fit the strike plate, test it once, twice, then add a second lock because I can.
The house is quiet again, but it’s not the same quiet as before. This one has edges.
I check the back windows. The alarm. The side gate camera feed on my phone. Front street still looks normal. Cars passing. A woman with a pram. Dublin carrying on like two men weren’t just zipped into black bags in my kitchen.
It pisses me off.
They came too fast.
Not a random shot in the dark. Not some fucker making an educated guess. They knew. Which means I’ve got a clock running now.
I kill the kitchen lights and head upstairs with my gun in my hand.
Pushing open the bedroom door, I step in and shut it behind me. Aoife is still in my bed, tucked up under the covers. The toilet brush is within reach on the floor beside her like she’s planning to defend her honor with bathroom supplies.
“Fixed?”
I nod and lean against the door. “They want you. They tracked you here.”
“Did they? Or did they just know you took me and came home?”
She has a point. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”
“So we should’ve gone somewhere else?”
“No. There isn’t anywhere else I trust.”
“You trust this place after someone broke into your kitchen?”
“I trust it more than anywhere else. I know it. I don’t know other places.”
She chews the inside of her lip. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”
Moving forward, I place the gun on the bedside cabinet on the other side of the bed to where she is. She glances at it.
“Aren’t those illegal?”
“Very,” I say with a wicked smile just to see her eyes widen.
“So, how did you get it?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Not really.”
“Why ask then?”
“To make conversation.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’m good with silence.” I sit on the edge of the bed and kick off my boots, then pull my socks off. Standing again, I tug up the hem of my tee with my left hand and yank it over my head.
I hear Aoife’s breath catch, but I ignore it. Not that my cock can. It jumps to attention as I turn and stride toward the en-suite, undoing my pants on the way. I shut the bathroom door behind me and brace my hands on the sink for one second.
One fucking second.
Then I strip, turn the shower on, and step under it before I can think too hard about the woman in my bed wearing my shirt and sleeping three feet from my gun.
The water hits my neck and runs down my back. I wash fast. No standing about. No thinking.
Aoife keeps cutting in. Her bare legs, her tits jiggling under my tee, her expressive eyes and smart mouth.
I rinse off and kill the water.
I wrap the white towel low on my hips, tucking the corner in tight. Water droplets slide down my chest, catching on old scars. With another towel, I scrub at my hair until it stands up in dark spikes, then fling it back on the rail.
Staring in the mirror, I make note of the injuries from the fight. A fresh bruise darkens over my ribs. Another on my shoulder. Knuckles wrecked.
Business as usual.
Except it’s not.
I open the door and step back into the bedroom.