CHAPTER 21 Maeve
The heavy, mechanical screech of the seaplane’s tires hitting the asphalt jolts me fully awake.
I gasp, my hands instinctively gripping the solid muscle of Declan’s chest to brace myself against the sudden deceleration. The cabin is dark, the only light coming from the pale glow of the instrument panel in the cockpit.
I am straddling him.
The realization hits me a second after the plane touches down. I fell asleep with my legs draped over his thighs, my face buried in the curve of his uninjured shoulder. The heat radiating between us is heavy and suffocating, completely at odds with the cold air conditioning of the cabin.
I try to pull back, to untangle myself and slide into the empty seat across the narrow aisle, but Declan’s hands are resting flat against the small of my back. He doesn't hold me tight enough to trap me, but the weight of his palms is a clear, possessive anchor.
"We're down," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against my collarbone.
"I know," I murmur, my voice thick with sleep. I carefully shift my weight, making sure not to bump his left shoulder. "You can let me go now."
He doesn't move his hands for three long seconds. He just looks at me, the dark obsidian of his eyes catching the faint moonlight through the small window. The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach do a slow, nervous flip.
He finally drops his hands.
I scramble off his lap, dropping into the seat across from him and buckling the heavy harness across my chest. I smooth down the fabric of my tactical pants, trying to pretend my pulse isn't hammering against my ribs.
The seaplane taxis for another minute before coming to a slow, heavy stop. The engines cut off, the sudden silence rushing into the cabin, heavy and absolute.
The pilot opens the cockpit door. "Welcome to nowhere, boss. I'll get the bags."
He pops the side door open and hops down onto the tarmac.
I look out the window. The hangar is massive, built of dark corrugated steel and concrete, completely hidden beneath a thick canopy of tropical trees. There are no runway lights. There is no control tower. It looks like a military black site abandoned decades ago.
"Where are we?" I ask, unbuckling my harness.
"A private atoll in the Bahamas," Declan replies, standing up.
He winces slightly, his right hand moving instinctively to hover over the thick medical tape on his left shoulder, but he forces his arm back down to his side.
"The LLC that owns the land is buried under seven layers of corporate encryption.
Even Leo doesn't know the exact coordinates. "
He grabs the waterproof case containing the laptop and steps out of the plane.
I follow him, my boots hitting the warm, humid asphalt of the hangar. The air smells entirely different here. The bitter chemical foam and cold rain of Miami are gone, replaced by the heavy, sweet scent of saltwater, wet earth, and blooming jasmine.
The pilot tosses the tactical duffel bag onto the ground near a dark green, open-top Jeep Wrangler parked inside the hangar.
"I'll refuel and wait for the signal," the pilot says, not looking at me. He addresses Declan entirely. "You need anything else before I go dark?"
"No. Maintain radio silence until I initiate contact."
The pilot nods, turning back toward the seaplane.
Declan picks up the duffel bag with his uninjured arm and throws it into the back of the Jeep. He walks around to the driver's side and slides behind the wheel.
I stand on the tarmac, looking out past the open doors of the hangar. The jungle is a dense, impenetrable wall of black shadow. There are no city lights reflecting off the clouds. There is no hum of traffic. The isolation is so complete it feels like a physical weight pressing against my chest.
"Maeve," Declan calls out quietly.
I turn around. He is watching me from the driver's seat, the keys already in the ignition.
"Is there anyone else here?" I ask, walking toward the passenger side. "You mentioned a caretaker."
"He lives on the opposite side of the island. He maintains the generators and the airstrip. He does not come to the main house unless I call him."
I climb into the Jeep. The leather seats are warm from the tropical air.
Declan starts the engine. He doesn't turn on the headlights. He drives out of the hangar, navigating a narrow, winding dirt road carved directly through the dense jungle. The moonlight filters through the thick canopy above us, casting long, shifting shadows across the hood of the Jeep.
The drive takes less than ten minutes, but it feels like hours.
My brain is struggling to process the rapid sequence of events.
Yesterday morning, I was drinking terrible coffee in Colorado.
Last night, I was running for my life in Miami.
Now, I am driving through a jungle with a man who burned his entire life down just to keep me.
The trees suddenly break, revealing a massive clearing overlooking the ocean.
I stop breathing.
The house isn't a bunker. It isn't a sterile penthouse. It is a sprawling, modern architectural masterpiece built directly into the side of a rocky cliff. It is constructed entirely of dark wood, black steel, and massive panes of glass that offer an unobstructed view of the dark, endless Atlantic.
It looks like a villain's lair from a James Bond movie, if the villain had impeccable taste and an unlimited budget.
Declan parks the Jeep near the wide, wooden front steps.
"This is yours?" I ask, stepping out of the car. The sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks below is a steady, rhythmic roar.
"It is a secure operational fallback point," he corrects, grabbing the bags.
"It's a mansion, Declan. You can call it an operational fallback point all you want, but it has an infinity pool." I point to the dark, glassy surface of the pool reflecting the moonlight near the edge of the cliff.
He doesn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Inside."
I walk up the wooden steps. Declan bypasses a heavy keypad near the door, simply pressing his thumb against a biometric scanner hidden in the doorframe. The heavy wooden door clicks open.
The interior of the house is stunning. High, vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams, dark slate floors, and minimalist, expensive furniture. The entire back wall of the living room is glass, looking out over the ocean.
It is beautiful, but it feels incredibly empty.
Declan drops the bags near the massive stone fireplace in the center of the room.
He turns to look at me. The pale moonlight streaming through the windows highlights the exhaustion etched into his features.
The dark bloodstain on his bandage has stopped spreading, but the tape is peeling at the edges.
"The medical bay," I say, pointing at his shoulder. "Where is it?"
"Down the hall. Last door on the right."
"Go sit down. I'll find the supplies."
He doesn't argue. That alone tells me how much pain he is actually in. He walks down the hallway, his boots heavy on the slate floor.
I follow him a minute later, carrying the small first-aid kit from the duffel bag just in case.
The medical bay is less of a bay and more of a fully stocked surgical suite hidden inside a guest bedroom. The walls are lined with stainless steel cabinets, and a heavy, adjustable examination table sits in the center of the room under a bright, surgical light.
Declan is sitting on the edge of the table. He has taken off the black t-shirt, leaving his chest bare. The muscles of his stomach and arms are tense, braced against the pain.
I walk over to the stainless steel cabinets, opening them until I find what I need. A local anesthetic, a suture kit, sterile gloves, and a bottle of heavy-duty painkillers.
I set the supplies on a metal tray and wheel it over to the table.
"Take these," I say, shaking two white pills out of the bottle and handing them to him.
He looks at the pills, then at me. "I need to remain alert."
"We are on an island in the middle of the ocean, Declan. The only thing you need to be alert for is me accidentally sewing your muscle to your skin." I push the pills closer to his mouth. "Take them."
He swallows the pills dry.
I pull on the sterile gloves. My hands are shaking again. Not from adrenaline this time, but from the sheer intimacy of what I am about to do. I am an auditor. I look at numbers. I don't sew human flesh back together.
I carefully peel the ruined medical tape off his shoulder. The gauze comes away with a sickening, wet sound.
The wound is deep. The edges of the torn muscle are raw and inflamed, but the bleeding has slowed to a sluggish ooze.
"I have to numb it," I whisper, picking up the syringe of local anesthetic.
"Do it."
I inject the clear liquid around the edges of the wound. Declan doesn't flinch, but his right hand grips the edge of the metal table hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
I wait two minutes for the anesthetic to take effect.
I pick up the curved suture needle and the heavy black thread. I take a slow, deep breath, trying to channel the same cold, clinical focus Declan uses when he pulls a trigger.
"Talk to me," I say, my voice tight as I push the needle through the first layer of skin.
"About what?" he asks, his voice a low, strained rumble.
"Anything. Tell me why you bought a mansion with an infinity pool if you only use it as a fallback point." I pull the thread through, tying the first knot with clumsy, trembling fingers.
"It was an investment property," he murmurs, his eyes tracking my face, completely ignoring the needle moving through his flesh. "The firm required hard assets to offset the liquid capital moving through offshore accounts."
"So you bought a Bond villain lair to avoid paying taxes."
"Essentially."
I push the needle through again. The skin is tough, requiring more force than I expected. I bite my lower lip, focusing entirely on the wound.
"Why did you become a fixer?" I ask quietly. It is a dangerous question, probing into the dark history he keeps carefully locked away.
Declan is silent for a long time. I finish the third stitch, my hands steadying as I find a rhythm.
"I was military," he says finally, the words slow and measured. "Special operations. I spent six years deploying to environments where the rules of engagement were written by politicians who had never heard a gunshot."
"You didn't like the rules."
"I didn't like the hypocrisy," he corrects. "I was expected to neutralize threats, but I was required to do it within a framework that prioritized optics over survival. When I left, I built a firm that eliminated the framework."
"You built a firm that lets rich people buy their way out of consequences."
"Yes."
I tie the final knot, snipping the excess thread with a small pair of surgical scissors. I step back, looking at the jagged, uneven line of black stitches cutting across his shoulder. It looks like a Frankenstein experiment, but the wound is closed.
"It's done," I say, pulling off the bloody gloves and tossing them into a biohazard bin.
Declan looks down at his shoulder, then back up at me. "Your hands stopped shaking."
I look at my hands. He's right. The tremor is completely gone.
"I guess I'm adapting," I mutter, turning away to wash my hands in the small sink in the corner of the room.
I scrub the soap into my skin, watching the water swirl down the drain. The silence in the medical bay stretches, heavy and complicated.
I survived the hitmen in Chicago. I survived the stairwell in Miami. I survived the helicopter ride. But standing in this sterile room, with the sound of the ocean crashing outside, the reality of my isolation finally hits me.
I turn off the tap and dry my hands on a paper towel.
"What happens now?" I ask, turning back to face him.
Declan is still sitting on the edge of the examination table. The painkillers are starting to kick in, softening the harsh, rigid lines of his posture slightly, but his eyes are still sharp and focused entirely on me.
"Now," he says, his voice a low, dark murmur, "we stay here until Leo confirms the cartel has lost our digital trail."
"And how long will that take?"
"Weeks. Possibly months."
The air leaves my lungs. Months. Months trapped on an island with a man who has made it abundantly clear that he intends to consume me.
"I can't just sit in a house for months, Declan," I say, my voice rising slightly. "I'll lose my mind."
"You won't lose your mind," he counters, sliding off the examination table. He walks toward me, his bare chest broad and imposing in the bright surgical light. "You will learn how to operate within the new parameters."
He stops inches away from me. The heat radiating off his skin is a physical pressure against my front.
"I am not a parameter," I whisper, tilting my head back to look at him.
"No," Declan agrees, his right hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb brushes over the fading bruises on my neck, a touch so agonizingly gentle it makes my breath catch. "You are the only thing that matters."
He leans down, his mouth hovering a millimeter above mine.
"You asked me to stop treating you like glass," he murmurs against my lips. "Are you sure that is what you want?"
I look into his dark, obsessive eyes. The fear is still there, a cold, rational voice screaming at me to run. But the desire is louder. The desperate, chaotic need to let him pull me into the dark and see what happens when the walls finally break.
"I'm sure," I breathe.
Declan closes the distance, capturing my mouth in a slow, devastating kiss.
There is no adrenaline this time. There is no gunfire or flashing red lights. There is only the quiet, heavy isolation of the island, and the absolute certainty that I am exactly where he wants me to be.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, tangling in my hair, anchoring me to him as the kiss deepens. I reach up, my hands resting flat against his bare chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.
We are off the map. We are completely alone.
And for the first time, I don't want to be found.