Chapter 24
Aoife
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I grab my panties and bra and wiggle into them as fast as I can.
I shove my legs into my jeans and bounce as I do them up.
My skin pulls at my hip when the denim scrapes over it, the fresh cut burning hot and sharp, and I suck in a breath through my teeth as I drag my t-shirt on.
Ready to run.
The words keep hitting me in ugly little bursts.
I grab my socks and trainers, jam them on, and then stand in the middle of the bedroom like an idiot, listening.
The house goes dead quiet.
No footsteps. No voices. No doorbell. Nothing.
That’s worse.
Turning to the dresser, I pull open the first drawer and rummage through the clothing to the back corner. My fingers brush the cool metal, and I freeze for a moment before I pull myself together and grab it. Nothing is going to happen to the giant man downstairs, so I won’t have to use this.
Simple.
I stare at it, heavier in my hand than expected and then shove it in the back of my jeans and hope it doesn’t go off by itself.
Then, I wait. I move to the side of the window and peer out cautiously. The street outside is empty. I move away to the ensuite and sit down on the closed toilet lid to wait.
Nothing happens. No sounds, nothing.
My stomach clenches, and I get up again, needing to do something instead of sitting here. Creeping to the bedroom door, I open it a crack and hear movement downstairs. A clack, a pause. More movement. Silence.
“Jesus,” I mutter and close the door again, moving back to sit on the bed. The suspense is going to kill me before some terrorist does.
Footsteps thud on the stairs, and I jump a mile, grabbing the gun and with a shaky hand, holding it up and pointing it at the door.
“Aoife,” Aran’s voice says before he opens it.
I lower the gun as he steps in and sees me. He closes the gap in two giant strides and takes the gun from me, hand over the barrel, and he lowers it further, and I let it go.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“For now,” he says, taking a breath like he’s forcing himself back down. “Put your hands out.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because they’re shaking.”
I look down. They are. Badly.
He steps back and sets the gun on top of the dresser, out of my reach, then takes my wrists and rubs his thumbs over the insides, firm and steady. “He sent proof.”
My pulse jumps. “Proof of what exactly?”
He lets go of one wrist and drags a hand through his hair. “That Nessa’s mother has been planning this for years. That Nessa knew exactly who Connor was before she ever set this up.”
I stare at him. “And?”
“And Granville wants a meet.”
“Why can’t anyone in your life just email a threat like normal people?”
That nearly gets a smile out of him. Nearly. “He gave me enough to know he’s not bluffing.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes too fast. Too flat. My stomach drops. “No.”
His eyes fix on mine. “Aoife.”
“No. Fuck no. He’s setting you up.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Aran, no. Absolutely not.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t have a choice, and you don’t get a say. This is business, Aoife. Not just something I can shrug off and say fuck it. Let it play out however. It doesn’t fucking work that way.”
He’s right, of course. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, but I just know that if I lose him now, it will hurt.
A lot. I don’t know what that says about me, him, this Stockholm Syndrome I’ve got going on, but I know what I know.
I swallow and hate that he can probably see the exact second fear hits me.
He steps closer. “Look at me.”
I do. I fucking do, because when he uses that voice, my body obeys before my pride catches up.
“I am not walking into this blind,” he says. “I know this could go sideways, but I also have been doing this long enough to know that men like Granville don’t negotiate for nothing. They do their job and move on. If he says he wants out, half of me actually believes him.”
“It doesn’t change the part where he could still put a bullet in your head.”
His expression hardens. “Anyone could. Any day.”
“So what?” I snap. “You just go?”
His eyes flash. “I go because if there’s a chance he’s telling the truth, then Connor needs that information before Nessa gets another move. If Granville thinks he can trade on that, I want him in front of me where I can judge it.”
“Judge it,” I repeat. “Right. Very normal.”
He ignores that. “You are staying here.”
“No.”
That lands between us like a slap.
His face goes very still. “Aoife.”
“No,” I say again, quieter this time but firmer.
He takes one step toward me. “You don’t get to tell me no.”
I lift my chin even though my heart is trying to punch out of my chest. “Watch me.”
His stare goes cold. Controlled. Worse than shouting. He exhales once through his nose. “Aoife.”
“No.” My voice shakes, which pisses me off, so I force it steadier. “I am not saying I’m coming to the meet. I’m saying I’m not staying here on my own like some good little hostage.”
His eyes narrow at that. “You are not a hostage.”
“I know that, but that is how it feels.”
He closes the distance and grips the back of my neck. Not hard. Firm. Possessive. “You think this is me trying to control you for the fun of it?”
“I think this is you making decisions for me because that’s what you do.”
“Yes,” he says bluntly. “Because I’m better at them.”
“Maybe. But do you really want to leave me here alone? I thought I was supposed to stay where you could see me.”
“Throwing my words back at me is rude,” he says with a huff.
“I play dirty. You should know that about me.”
“You could’ve led with that.”
“So I can come?”
“You can come. But if you die, I’m going to bring you back and kill you.”
“I’ll try my best,” I murmur as he crushes me to his mammoth chest.
“Please don’t die,” he whispers into my hair in a moment so vulnerable for him, it brings tears to my eyes.
“I won’t if you don’t.”
“I’m hard to kill.”
“There’s more of you to shoot.”
He snorts. “Okay, that’s fair. But just because you look like you could live in a teacup, doesn’t mean these people can’t aim at your head and not miss.”
“Not helping,” I mutter, wiping under my eyes before the tears can properly fall.
His hand slides up to cup the back of my head. “You need to know what you’re walking into.” He kisses my forehead once, then pulls back and goes straight back into asshole mode, which is probably for the best because if he stays soft for another second, I might completely lose my shit.
“Get your coat,” he says. “Hair up.”
“Coat? It’s the middle of summer. I don’t have one.”
“Yeah, you do. The delivery arrived.”
Delivery. He bought me clothes.
He leaves me in the bedroom and strides into the hall. I follow.
At the bottom of the stairs, a stack of boxes sits against the wall.
“Here,” he says, ripping one open and rummaging for a coat.
It’s a lightweight jacket. Expensive. Soft.
Beautiful. The type of jacket I’d have worn pre-running from Darragh.
Thinking about him and my past life sends a jolt through me.
I left everything behind to create a safe space for myself, and now I’m rushing headlong into a meeting with a known terrorist alongside the six-foot-six mafia man I’m fucking after knowing him for a few hours.
What am I thinking?
That’s when everything catches up on me, and I freeze.
My arms are holding the jacket up, stiff and cold. My hands feel like ice. My head pounds.
“Aoife?” His voice comes closer fast. “Aoife.”
The jacket slips in my fingers.
Aran catches it before it hits the floor. “Hey.” His hand cups the side of my face. “Look at me.”
I try.
His face swims into focus in bits. Blue eyes. Hard mouth. Dark hair mussed from running his hands through it. The mark I left on his neck.
“Breathe,” he says.
I drag in air, and it catches halfway down.
“Again.”
I do it again. Worse this time.
“Fuck.” He takes the jacket from me and drops it on the bannister. Then his hands are on my arms, rubbing up and down, firm and quick. “Stay with me.”
“I am,” I whisper, which is a lie because I’m halfway back in that kitchen from two years ago and halfway in this hall and fully fucking useless.
“No, you’re not. This is too much. I’m not taking you to the meet. I’ll find somewhere safer for you.”
That jolts me out of my growing panic attack like nothing else could. “No! Don’t leave me! You said you wouldn’t.”
His face changes. Not softer exactly. More wrecked. “I know what I said,” he says, voice low. “I’m not leaving you. Fuck. Come here.”
He pulls me into him, one arm hard around my back, the other hand at the back of my head, holding me there while I shake against his chest like my body has forgotten how to be normal. I grab handfuls of his t-shirt and breathe like he tells me to.
“In,” he says near my ear. “Slow.”
I do it.
“Again.”
I do it again, and this time it goes all the way down.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
My eyes sting. “Don’t fucking ‘good girl’ me when I’m losing it.”
“It’s working though, isn’t it?”
I hate that it is.
He keeps rubbing his hands up and down my arms, grounding me, giving my body something real to focus on besides the panic trying to claw through my ribs.
“You’re not staying here alone,” he says. “I’m changing the plan. That’s all.”
“I’m coming with you.”
He goes quiet for a beat. “Aoife.”
“No.” I pull back enough to look up at him. “Don’t do that thing where you decide for me because I had one bad minute where I mourned the life I lost.”
He frowns, but before he can say anything, I carry on.
“Yeah. Like a superficial bitch, I grieved for my nice clothes, my nice flat, my nice job, my nice life in Cork. I mourned for a few seconds the life I had to lose to be safe. But I don’t regret it. I don’t. I’m not the same woman I was then. I’m more resilient. Tougher… Do not laugh!”
“I wasn’t,” he says, eyes wide as I accuse him presumptuously.
I glare up at him, still clutching his shirt. “I am tougher.”
“Oh, I know you fucking are. You’re also having a delayed reaction to being kidnapped, nearly murdered, used as bait by a stranger, fired, dragged into mafia family drama, fucked half to death, and then told you might have to sit through a meeting with a terrorist.”
When he puts it like that, it does sound a bit much.
“I’m still coming,” I say.
His jaw flexes. “You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“I’m still taking it.”
He stares at me for a second, then blows out a breath. “Fine. New rules.”
“Your favorite thing.”
“Don’t be cute. Listen.” He cups my face, forcing my full attention onto him. “You stay in the car unless I say otherwise. You keep your seatbelt off so you can move fast. If I tell you to get down, you get down. If I tell you to run, you run. If I shove you, don’t take it personally.”
“That last one feels important.”
“It is.”
I nod. “Okay.”
His eyes search my face like he’s checking I’m being honest.
I give him the one thing he needs right now, and I don’t even have to wonder if it’s true because it is. I reach up, cup his face and say, “I trust you.”