CHAPTER 18 Declan
The heavy, suffocating control I have spent my entire life building completely disintegrates the second her mouth opens against mine.
I am not thinking about the cartel. I am not thinking about the compromised server in the sub-basement. I am not even thinking about the sharp, tearing pain radiating from my left shoulder.
The only variable left in the room is Maeve.
She is a chaotic, desperate weight pressing me down into the soft cushions of the sofa.
Her fingers are tangled in my hair, her thumbs pressing into my scalp with enough force to ground me in the physical reality of the moment.
She kisses like she fights—frantic, aggressive, and entirely without hesitation.
I wrap my right arm around her waist, my hand sliding under the hem of her black t-shirt to find the warm, bare skin of her lower back.
Maeve gasps into my mouth, her spine arching slightly as my fingers press into the soft curve just above her sweatpants. The sound is a sharp, involuntary intake of breath that sends a violent jolt straight to my core.
I roll us over.
The movement is fast, driven by pure instinct. I ignore the protest of my torn shoulder, shifting my weight until I am hovering over her, pinning her to the sofa. I don't crush her, but I make sure she feels the absolute, inescapable reality of my physical dominance.
I break the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at her.
Her dark hair is spread across the white cushions, tangled and wild. Her chest is heaving, her lips swollen and damp. But it is her eyes that completely arrest me. They are wide, the pupils blown completely black, staring up at me with a mixture of terror and absolute, undeniable hunger.
"You asked for this," I murmur, my voice a dark, rough vibration.
"I know," she breathes, her hands sliding from my hair to grip my shoulders. She avoids the bloody bandage on my left side, her fingers digging into the uninjured muscle of my right arm. "I'm not running."
I lower my head, my mouth grazing the soft skin just below her ear. I inhale the scent of her—the clean, generic hotel soap completely overwhelmed by the warm, sweet scent of vanilla that belongs entirely to her.
I trace the line of her jaw with my lips, moving down to the dark, ugly bruises marring her throat.
I don't kiss them. I press my mouth to the unblemished skin just below the collar of her t-shirt, my teeth scraping lightly over her collarbone.
Maeve lets out a shattered, broken sound, her hips arching up against mine.
The friction is devastating. It strips away the last remaining shred of my operational discipline. I slide my right hand up her ribcage, my thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the thin cotton.
She shivers violently, her hands moving from my shoulders to my chest. Her palms press flat against my skin, her fingers tracing the heavy lines of my musculature.
"Declan," she whispers, my name sounding like a plea.
I capture her mouth again, swallowing the sound. The kiss is slower this time, deeper, a methodical exploration that demands absolute surrender. I sweep my tongue over hers, tasting the salt of her skin and the dark, bitter edge of the coffee she drank earlier.
She tastes like survival.
I pull the hem of her t-shirt up, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull the fabric over her head. I toss the shirt onto the floor, the soft cotton landing with a quiet thud.
She is wearing a plain black cotton bra underneath. It is utilitarian, practical, exactly what I would expect her to wear. But seeing it—seeing her exposed, lying on my sofa in the dim light of the penthouse—makes my blood run cold with a possessive, territorial rage.
No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to touch this.
I trace the edge of the black cotton with my index finger, my knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her stomach. Her breath hitches, her stomach muscles contracting sharply under my touch.
"You are shaking," I observe quietly, my eyes locked on her face.
"I'm cold," she lies, her voice trembling.
"You are not cold." I lean down, my mouth hovering an inch above hers. "You are realizing exactly what it means to let me keep you."
She swallows hard, the movement highlighting the bruises on her throat. "What does it mean?"
"It means you don't belong to the chaos anymore," I say, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "It means you are mine. And I do not share what is mine."
I don't wait for her to process the absolute arrogance of the statement. I kiss her again, my hand moving from her stomach to the clasp of her bra. I unhook it with a single, practiced motion, pushing the fabric aside.
Maeve gasps, her hands gripping my biceps tightly.
I lower my head, my mouth replacing my hand. I take her into my mouth, my tongue swirling over the tight, sensitive peak.
She cries out, a sharp, beautiful sound that echoes in the quiet room. Her hands move to my hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling me closer. Her hips arch off the sofa, pressing frantically against my center.
The heat building between us is suffocating. It is a violent, desperate need to consume and be consumed.
I slide my hand down the front of her sweatpants, my fingers slipping beneath the elastic waistband.
She is soaking wet.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. She isn't just reacting to the adrenaline. She wants this. She wants me, the man who dragged her out of her life and locked her in a cage.
I press two fingers inside her, stretching her slowly.
Maeve lets out a fractured sob, her head falling back against the cushions. "Please," she begs, her voice completely stripped of its usual defensive armor.
"Look at me," I command, my thumb finding the slick, swollen bundle of nerves at her center.
She opens her eyes, tears blurring her vision.
I begin to move my fingers, a slow, rhythmic friction that matches the heavy pounding of my own heart. I don't look away from her face. I watch the exact moment her control begins to shatter.
Her breathing turns ragged. Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin.
"Declan," she gasps, her hips bucking against my hand.
"I have you," I murmur, increasing the pressure, my thumb circling relentlessly.
She falls apart perfectly.
Her entire body goes rigid, a violent shudder ripping through her frame. She cries out my name, the sound muffled against my shoulder as she buries her face in my neck. Her internal muscles clamp down around my fingers, tight and hot, milking every ounce of pleasure from the release.
I hold her through the tremors, my hand sliding out to rest flat against her stomach.
She is gasping for air, her skin flushed, her hair a chaotic mess against the white cushions.
I pull back slightly, resting my forearms on either side of her head. I look down at her. She looks absolutely ruined. And she looks beautiful.
"You're bleeding," she whispers, her eyes focusing on my left shoulder.
I glance down. The physical exertion has completely torn the butterfly bandages loose. Fresh, dark blood is seeping down my bicep, dripping onto the pristine white fabric of the sofa.
"It doesn't matter," I say, my voice rough.
I shift my weight, reaching for the waistband of my tactical pants.
Before I can unfasten the belt, a sharp, aggressive buzzing sound cuts through the heavy silence of the penthouse.
It is the secure satellite phone sitting on the coffee table.
I freeze.
The sound is jarring, entirely out of place in the intimate, suffocating atmosphere we just created.
Maeve flinches, her eyes darting toward the table. The reality of the world outside the penthouse comes crashing back in, cold and unforgiving.
I don't move. I stare at the phone. It is Leo’s encrypted line. He only uses the emergency channel if the operational parameters have catastrophically changed.
The phone buzzes again.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, the discipline I abandoned ten minutes ago forcing its way back into my brain.
I push myself off the sofa.
The sudden loss of my body heat leaves Maeve shivering. She pulls her sweatpants up, her hands trembling as she reaches for the black t-shirt on the floor.
I pick up the phone, hitting the green acceptance button.
"Report," I say, my voice completely flat.
"Dec, we have a massive problem," Leo’s voice crackles through the speaker, the usual lazy drawl replaced by sharp, frantic energy. "The cartel didn't just sever the connection in the sub-basement. They traced the ghost protocol back to the secondary relay."
I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning my back to the sofa. "The relay was encrypted through three dummy servers in Eastern Europe."
"I know. But they didn't use a standard trace. They used a localized physical ping." Leo pauses, the sound of aggressive typing echoing in the background. "They tracked the origin point of the manual override Maeve initiated when she triggered the fire suppression system."
A cold, heavy weight settles in the center of my chest. "They tracked the IP."
"Worse. They tracked the MAC address of the laptop itself when it briefly connected to the building's local intranet." Leo lets out a harsh breath. "Dec, they know you aren't in the sub-basement anymore. They know you are within a two-mile radius of the Apex building."
I look out the window. The Mandarin Oriental is exactly 1.4 miles from the financial district.
"How long until they narrow the grid?" I ask.
"They already have," Leo says grimly. "I just intercepted a dispatch order on their encrypted radio frequency. They are sending two tactical teams to sweep the luxury hotels in Brickell. They are looking for a man with a gunshot wound and a woman matching Maeve’s description."
"ETA?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe less if they bypass traffic."
"Understood. Scrub the remaining logs and initiate the burn protocol on the servers in Colorado. We are going dark."
I end the call, tossing the phone back onto the table.
I turn around.
Maeve is sitting up on the sofa. She has pulled her t-shirt back on, but her hair is still a wild mess, and her lips are swollen from the kiss. She looks at the blood dripping down my arm, then up to my face.
"They found us," she says. It isn't a question.
"They narrowed the search grid," I correct, walking toward the duffel bag near the door. "They are sweeping the hotels in the area."
"So we have to run."
"Yes."
I pull a clean black t-shirt from the bag and pull it over my head, wincing as the fabric drags across the open wound on my shoulder. I don't bother re-taping the bandage. There is no time.
I grab my tactical vest, shrugging it on over the shirt, and check the magazines in the pouches.
Maeve stands up. She doesn't panic. She doesn't ask questions. She walks over to the dining table, grabs the waterproof casing containing the laptop, and clips the heavy flashlight back onto her belt.
She is adapting to the violence of my world with a terrifying speed.
"Where are we going?" she asks, walking toward me.
"We cannot use the service elevator. If they are sweeping the building, they will secure the subterranean exits first." I pull the Glock from my thigh holster, racking the slide. "We go up."
"Up?" She frowns, looking at the ceiling. "Declan, we're in the penthouse. There's only the roof."
"Exactly."
I open the heavy mahogany door, stepping out into the quiet, carpeted hallway. The air feels heavy, charged with the impending collision of violence.
"Stay behind me," I order quietly.
We move quickly down the corridor toward the emergency stairwell. I push the heavy metal door open, the hinges groaning slightly in the silence.
We take the stairs two at a time. The climb is short—only two flights to the roof access door.
I stop in front of the heavy steel door, pressing my hand against the metal. It’s cold.
I push the push-bar, stepping out into the humid, windy night air of Miami.
The roof is massive, a flat expanse of tar and gravel surrounded by a low concrete parapet. The neon lights of the city glow in the distance, casting long, eerie shadows across the massive air conditioning units and ventilation shafts.
"There's nowhere to go," Maeve says, her voice tight as she looks around the empty roof. "We're trapped."
"We are not trapped," I say, walking toward the edge of the roof overlooking Biscayne Bay.
I reach into the tactical pouch on my vest and pull out a small, heavy flare gun.
"What is that for?" she asks, stepping up beside me.
Before I can answer, the heavy steel door of the stairwell slams open behind us.
I spin around, pushing Maeve behind my back, my weapon raised.
Four men step out onto the roof. They are wearing dark tactical gear, identical to the men in the sub-basement. They spread out quickly, their rifles raised and pointed directly at us.
The lead man, a tall, heavily built operative with a scar cutting across his jaw, steps forward. He doesn't look at me. He looks at Maeve standing behind my shoulder.
"Richard said you were pretty," the man says, his voice a harsh, grating rasp over the sound of the wind. "He didn't say you were stupid enough to trap yourself on a roof."
I don't engage in the banter. I keep my weapon trained on his center mass.
"You have one opportunity to turn around and walk back down those stairs," I state, my voice perfectly calm.
The man laughs. It’s a cruel, ugly sound. "You're out of bullets, Vance. And you're out of places to run. Drop the gun, and we might let the girl live long enough to regret meeting you."
I look at the four men. I look at the dark expanse of the bay behind me.
I don't drop the gun.
I raise the flare gun in my left hand, point it straight up into the dark Miami sky, and pull the trigger.
A brilliant, blinding red flare shoots upward, exploding with a loud crack and illuminating the entire roof in a harsh, bloody light.
The cartel operatives flinch, their eyes tracking the sudden burst of light.
It is the only distraction I need.