10. Lorcan
Lorcan
I am sitting at my desk in the main study, staring at a set of offshore account ledgers that aren't balancing, when I hear noises down the hall.
It’s not a security breach. If it were, the silent alarms would be pulsing red against the wood panels. No, this is a loud, chaotic, high-pitched racket that can only be caused by one specific five-foot-two variable.
"Let go of me, you giant, brainless Neanderthal!" her voice screeches, echoing through the heavy double doors before they even open. "I will literally bite your fingers off! I told you to tell him to fuck off, not invite myself to his stupid morning meeting!"
The door bursts open.
Sean, who has been on my personal security detail for five years and is usually capable of throwing a two-hundred-pound man over a wall without breaking a sweat, looks entirely out of his depth.
He’s holding Atara by the wrists, his face flushed red as she tries to kick his shins with her bare feet.
"Boss," Sean pants, looking at me with absolute desperation. "I’m sorry. You said you wanted her in the office, and when I told her, she told me to—"
"I told him to fuck right off," Atara snarls, wrenching her arm out of his grip. "That was my official statement. And then this gorilla put his hands on me!"
I don't hear a word. My brain has completely locked up.
I stare at her, and my hands grip the edge of my mahogany desk so hard the wood groans.
First, she’s fucking beautiful. Second, she is currently screaming profanities at a man who could slide a knife between her ribs without blinking. And third, I am fighting two of the most violent, opposing urges of my life.
The first urge is to pull my piece from my holster and put a bullet directly through Sean’s forehead. He’s standing there holding her, his hands on her bare wrists, and his eyes—even if he’s trying to keep them on me—have definitely seen what she’s wearing.
She’s in a tiny, thin white cotton nightdress.
It’s barely a scrap of fabric. It sits just below the soft, round curve of her behind, exposing the entire length of her creamy, flawless legs.
The white cotton is practically useless; the air conditioning in the hallway has turned her nipples into hard, prominent peaks that thrust arrogantly against the fabric.
I can see the faint, dark shadow of her aureoles and the outline of her hips.
The second urge is to kick Sean out, lock the double doors, stalk over to her, and throw her onto the desk.
I want to smash her mouth with mine. I want to cup those heavy, bouncing breasts through the useless cotton, pull her legs around my waist, kneel on the floor, and worship every inch of her skin until she’s screaming my name instead of insults.
Fuck, I am rock hard in a fraction of a second, my trousers straining so violently against my zipper it’s painful. My mind is instantly back in the resort room in Ireland, tasting her, smelling her, feeling the wet, hot slide of her body as she arched against my tongue.
"Sean," I say. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It’s a low, raspy growl that makes Sean freeze instantly.
"Boss?"
"Let her go. Step out. And if you ever look below her neck again, I’ll personally carve your eyes out of your skull."
Sean’s face goes pale. He drops her wrists like they’re made of white-hot coal, takes a step back, and bows his head. "Understood, sir."
He backs out of the room so fast he nearly trips over the threshold, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that follows is welcomed. Atara is standing in the center of the room, her chest heaving under the thin cotton. Her nipples are practically pointing at me, and I have to clench my fists under the desk to keep from reaching for them.
"You're a maniac," she snaps, pointing a finger at me. "Do you have any idea what time it is? Normal people are sleeping. Or eating cereal. They aren't having their arms dislocated by men named Sean."
"I asked him to bring you here," I say, keeping my voice level by sheer force of will. "I didn't tell him to drag you. If you had complied, you'd be in a bathrobe."
"I don't comply with kidnappers, Lorcan.
That's not in my nature." She crosses her arms over her chest, which only serves to push her breasts up, making the hard peaks of her nipples even more obvious.
"Why am I here? Are you going to give me my phone back?
Or are we just doing another round of 'look how powerful I am'? "
"Sit down, Atara."
"No." Stubborn girl.
I stand up slowly. I’m wearing a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders as I walk around the desk. I stop a few feet from her. The scent of her hits me, and my dick thumps against my zipper.
"We need to discuss the parameters of your stay," I say, looking down at her. "You’ve been here two days. You’ve paced the floor, you’ve bothered my staff, and you’re treating this like a temporary inconvenience. It’s not. You’re here until I say otherwise."
"I want to call my mother," she says, her jaw setting in that stubborn line I’m becoming obsessed with. "And Tania. They’re going to call the police, Lorcan. They’re going to realize I’m missing."
"They won't," I say.
She blinks, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean they won't?"
"I’ve already had Echo send messages from your cloud account," I say calmly. "Using your writing style. We pulled enough data from your old phone to mimic your tone. The message says you’re devastated about Mark, you’ve decided to take an extended holiday at a wellness retreat in Europe, and you’re turning your phone off to 'find your center. '"
Atara stares at me. Her face goes from flushed pink to a shocking, bloodless white.
"You... you didn't."
"It was necessary," I say, looking up at her. "Your mother replied thirty minutes later, telling you to 'find your bliss' and that she loved you. Your friend Tania sent a string of emojis and told you to drink a margarita for her. The narrative is set. No one is looking for you."
"You sociopath!" she shrieks, her voice cracking. She lunges toward the desk, her hands slamming against the wood. She’s leaning over now, and the neckline of her nightdress dips, giving me a straight, unobstructed view of her full, heavy breasts hanging loose.
"You cut me off! You literally erased my existence!
I have a life! You don't get to write my texts for me! "
"I get to keep you alive," I say sternly.
"Silas has people parked outside your mother's house in Queens.
He has people watching your friend Tania's socials, waiting for you to slip and like a photo from the wrong account.
If you send one ping from a real phone or surface on a single flight manifest, they don't just find you.
They find the fastest thing to take from you—and right now that's a two-bedroom in Queens and a girl who told you to drink a margarita for her. "
I watch it land. Not the part about her own head in a box; she barely flinched at that, which tells me more about her than I'm comfortable knowing.
It's the names that do it. Mother. Tania.
The fury drains out of her face like someone pulled a plug, and what's left underneath is rawer—the look of a woman realizing the people she'd run toward are the exact people her running would get killed.
For one full breath, she isn't fighting me. She's somewhere else, doing arithmetic I can watch happen behind her eyes, and landing where I already am.
"You're saying it's not just me," she says, very quietly.
"It was never just you. That's the whole point. So don't fucking negotiate," I snap, moving closer.
The movement is a mistake. Her scent engulfs me hard. I tower over her, my shadow swallowing her completely.
"You will stay in the East Wing," I say, holding her gaze with everything I have. "You will eat the food my staff prepares. You will not try to access the house network. You will behave, Atara. If you don't, I will lock you in a room without a view of the mountains. Do you understand?"
She looks at me, her lower lip trembling with a mix of fury and fear, but she bites it hard. She sets her jaw, her chin tilting up in that stubborn, beautiful way that makes my chest tighten.
"I hate you," she says, her voice a jagged whisper. "I hate every single thing about you."
"Get out," I say.
She turns and storms out of the room, the tiny nightdress swirling around her thighs, exposing the pale skin of her backside for a fraction of a second. I swear to God, I almost lose my mind right there. I have to lean against my desk, my hand trembling as I run it over my face.
She’s going to be the death of me.
She lasts exactly forty-five minutes before she violates every single rule I just laid out.
I’m in the War Room with Kieran, reviewing the security logistics for the Senator’s meeting, when the intercom buzzes.
"Boss," Miller’s voice comes through, sounding slightly strained. "We have a situation on the second floor."
"What is it?"
"The guest. She’s... well, she’s in the restricted corridor of the West Wing. I told her she couldn't be here, and she told me my mother was a lizard and that she was looking for a library because 'your house has a serious lack of intellectual stimulation.'"
I close my eyes. I can feel a headache forming behind my temples. "Where is she now?"
"She bypassed Sean at the security desk, she told him you’d approved her access, and now she’s in your private study. She locked the door from the inside, sir."
Kieran lets out a soft, amused snort from the corner of the room. I glare at him, and the smile instantly vanishes from his face.
"Should I send a team?" Kieran asks, though his voice is twitching.
"No," I say, standing up. My fists are clenched so tight my knuckles are white. "I’ll handle this myself."