15. Atara
Atara
The dining room of the compound is a big space, all vaulted stone ceilings and polished dark wood that usually makes me feel like I’m dining inside a tomb. But tonight… Tonight is different.
Maeve is sitting across from me, her legs swinging beneath her chair, currently deep into an enthusiastic, rapid-fire explanation of why a velociraptor would be the best possible choice for a roommate in a high-rise.
I’m doing my best to keep a straight face, spearing a roasted potato while she paints a vivid picture of a dinosaur trying to navigate a narrow hallway with a tail that takes out everything in its path.
Lorcan is at the head of the table. He’s ditched the suit jacket, his charcoal button-down shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal those thick, ink-stained forearms. He’s actually listening to her, the dangerous, jagged lines of his face softening in a way that’s almost disorienting.
"The tail would be a nightmare, Maeve," Lorcan says, his voice low and vibrating with a rare, genuine amusement. "You’d spend your whole paycheck on drywall repairs."
"But we could put the lamps on the ceiling!" she argues, waving a forkful of broccoli with complete conviction. "Then he couldn't knock them over with his tail!"
"Ceiling lamps are impossible to clean," I chime in, reaching over to wipe a smear of sauce off her chin. Her skin is soft, warm, and utterly innocent, a stark contrast to the heavy, cold energy that usually saturates these walls. "And where would the dinosaur sleep? He’s way too big for your bed. He’d probably try to curl up on the sofa and crush your favorite pillows. "
Maeve giggles, a bright, clear sound that cuts through the sterile atmosphere of the house.
For a few minutes, the war is a million miles away.
There is no Silas. There is no gunfight on the North Pass.
There are just three people, a dinner that tastes surprisingly good, and the ridiculous, nonsensical challenges of keeping a predator in a Las Vegas penthouse.
Then, the butler walks in.
He doesn’t have the dessert trolley, no, he’s carrying a small, black velvet box, and he looks like he’s walking toward a firing squad.
He moves with a rigid, panicked stiffness, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Lorcan’s left shoulder.
He places the box in front of Lorcan, the velvet making a tiny, muted thud against the wood.
"A delivery, sir," the butler says, his voice barely a whisper. "Left at the north gate. No courier."
The laughter in the room dies.
Lorcan doesn't look at the box at first. His hands, usually so steady they seem carved from granite, grip the stem of his wine glass so hard the crystal groans. He stares at the velvet surface as if it were a coiled snake.
Slowly, his hand reaches out. He opens the lid.
I’m watching him—I can't help it. I’m looking for the mask. I’m looking for the cold, unbothered, ruthless Don who handles death like a business transaction.
It isn't there.
For a heartbeat, his face collapses. He stares at the contents, his jaw unhinging, his chest seizing, and for one terrifying, silent second, I see the man beneath the armor. He looks devastated.
Then, he slams the box shut, and the mask slams back into place.
"Everyone out," he growls loudly. The staff doesn't wait to be told twice. They vanish like smoke. Maeve, sensing the sudden, violent shift in the air, starts to squirm, her lip wobbling. "Daddy? I didn't finish my peas! I want to stay!"
I reach out and take her hand. I keep my voice soft, calm, acting as a buffer. "It’s okay, Maeve. Why don't you come with me? I have that book you liked, the one about the star-nosed mole. We can read it in your room."
She looks at her Dads, but he’s staring at the black box with a terrifying, hollow focus, his breathing shallow and rapid. She nods, letting me lead her away, her small hand clutching mine with a little too much pressure.
Tucking Maeve into bed is a quiet, heavy affair. She’s sleepy, her eyelashes casting long shadows against her cheeks as she drifts off.
"Maeve?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. "What was your mommy like?"
She hums, her hand idly spinning an invisible ring on her finger. "She was pretty. She smelled like flowers. She had a ring with a big blue stone that I liked to spin, she also liked to talk about my uncle Silas a lot."
My breath hitches. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed.
Uncle Silas? The same man trying to kill me and her Dad?
"Was your uncle Silas there a lot?"
"Yeah," she says, her tone flat and matter-of-fact, the way children describe the weather. "He came for dinner. And then he was there the night Mommy didn't wake up. Daddy was sad, but he stopped being sad and started being mad. Forever."
She drifts off, her breathing turning rhythmic and soft.
I sit on the floor by her bed for a long time.
The house feels enormous, a labyrinth built on top of a graveyard.
I think about the jewelry box, the raw look in Lorcan’s eyes, and the sheer, brutal weight of a man who lives with his wife’s killer breathing down his neck every single day.
I’m terrified of him, and I hate being held captive, but sitting here in the dark, I feel a sudden, sharp ache for him.
He’s not just a criminal, he’s a grieving husband who has been trapped in a loop of vengeance for five years.
I walk to his study, the door is cracked open, casting a sliver of warm, dim light into the hallway.
He’s standing by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, looking out at the glittering, lonely expanse of the desert.
He doesn't turn around when I enter, but he doesn't tell me to get out, either.
I walk to the desk and lean against the edge. "She’s asleep."
"Good," he says. His voice is flat.
I look at his back. He’s still wearing the same shirt, but the sleeves are rolled down now, hiding the tattoos.
He looks like he’s carrying a mountain. I find myself wanting to walk over and just lean my head against his shoulder.
My body is still throbbing with the memory of the floor, the memory of his hands, but that’s not what I’m feeling right now.
I just want him to be okay. It’s an insane thought—he’s my captor—but the empathy is there, a stubborn, irrational pull.
"Lorcan," I say, and for the first time, I don't mean to fight. "I'm not here to talk about the mole. I’m just... I’m here."
He turns around. He looks older tonight. The lines around his eyes are deeper, the shadows underneath them more pronounced. He takes a slow sip of his drink and looks at me, really looks at me.
"You’re a terrible captive," he says. His voice has a dry, almost humorous edge to it. “Are you really trying to comfort your captor?”
"I'm a very efficient captive," I counter, crossing my arms over my chest, which only makes the fabric of my dress pull tighter across my breasts. "I’m not just contorting you, I’m also organizing your book collection by publication date.
You have a lot of books for a mafia lord. You should branch out into fiction."
He lets out a quiet, genuine laugh. It’s a low, raspy sound that catches me off guard.
"Fiction is for people who believe in happy endings," he says. He walks closer, stopping a few feet away. "You believe in them, don't you? Atara Ross."
"I believe that people should be allowed to have them," I say. "Even if they're grumpy, ink-covered, and occasionally kidnap people."
He steps into my space, and the heavy sadness from earlier is still there, but beneath it, the hunger starts to coil.
I can feel it in the way his eyes darken, the way he looks at the pulse point in my throat.
My body immediately betrays me—my nipples harden, my core clenches, and that familiar, needy ache begins to pulse between my legs.
I want him to touch me. I want him to ruin me.
I want to feel that rough, heavy weight on top of me again.
It’s a confusing, suffocating feeling—being furious at him, scared of him, and yet wanting him so desperately that I can barely stand still.
"You're a distraction," he mutters, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low register. "And I have no idea what to do about you."
"First, stop looking at me like you’re trying to solve me," I whisper.
He looks at my mouth. His eyes are burning, filled with a yearning so raw and exposed it makes my breath catch. He reaches out, his thumb brushing against my lower lip, tracing the shape of it with a gentle, agonizingly slow motion.
My body is screaming for him. I want to lean into him; I want to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down until his mouth covers mine. I’m starved for the touch of him, for the way he makes me feel like I’m the only person in his world, even when his world is a battlefield.
He pulls his hand away.
He turns toward the desk and gestures to a stack of digital ledgers.
"I have a problem," he says, his voice returning to that cold, business-like tone. "The accounts. There’s a bleed. It’s small, but it’s consistent. It’s been happening for months. I haven't had the time to find it."
He looks at me, his eyes sharp. "You’re an auditor, right? You’re the smartest person I’ve met in five years. I’m giving you full access to the internal finances. If you find the leak, if you show me who’s been skimming from my accounts, I’ll give you a reward."
I stare at the screens. This is it. This is the data. This is my way out.
"What kind of reward?" I ask.
"Anything you want," he says. He picks up his glass, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long. "Within reason."
He walks to the door, pauses, and looks back at me. "Don't work too late. You look tired."
He leaves, and I’m standing in the middle of his study, the air still thick with his scent. I’m left standing there, absolutely aching, my body feeling like it’s been set on fire. He walked away. He left me here, in his room, smelling of him, and he didn't even touch me.
I’m confused. I’m frustrated. And God, I’m so incredibly hungry for him.
I sit down at his desk and open the first file. I have the name of the mole. Now, I’m going to find the thief. I’m going to earn my freedom. And if I have to climb over a pile of ledgers to get there?
Fine.
The game just got a lot more interesting. My heart is pounding, but it’s not from fear this time. It’s from the realization that I’m not just a prisoner. I’m a player. And I’m going to win.