22. Lorcan
Lorcan
The sub-basement War Room smells of cold coffee and dust. It's where we run the logistics of an empire that operates mostly in the dark, no windows, low light, quiet.
I sit at the head of the table, staring at shipping manifests that won't add up. My head has been pounding since the skirmish at the North Pass.
"The northern hub is hemorrhaging," Kieran says, his voice grating against the quiet. He leans against the map console, his arms crossed over his chest, looking as tired as I feel. "We’re losing stock by the hour, and the logistics software is showing gaps in the inventory that shouldn't exist."
"It’s not the software," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "It’s the entry points. Someone is feeding Silas my protocols in real-time."
Echo stands by the monitors, his face lit by the blue glare of the scrolling data. "If we don't fix this by tomorrow, the whole supply line goes dark. We’re bleeding profit, Boss."
I don't answer. I keep staring at the screen, hunting a pattern I can't find. The old irritation starts up under my ribs, the kind that usually ends with something broken. It isn't only money. It's control. And Silas is still out there, playing a game I haven't finished winning.
The steel doors hiss open.
I don't look up. It should be a guard, probably, or another report from the perimeter teams. I don't expect Atara.
She walks in with a steady, deliberate stride. No leggings, no oversized sweater. Charcoal silk blouse and trousers, hair pulled back into a sharp ponytail. She looks like she stepped off an elevator forty floors up, completely wrong for a concrete bunker, and she owns the room anyway.
"You're interrupting a strategy session," I say. It comes out gruff. I don't tell her to leave. I watch the way she moves, shoulders squared, chin level.
She doesn't respond to my words at all. She ignores Kieran and Echo and walks straight to the table, pulls a stack of papers from a slim folder, and slides them across the wood toward me.
"I have something you need," she says. No edge, no charm. Just flat and professional.
I look down, expecting another argument, another bid for her release.
It's a flow chart. Wire transfer receipts.
A signature verification. I go still and start turning pages, names, dates, the numbers behind the numbers.
It's an audit. A deep one. Nine years of records cross-referenced against shipment manifests and the personal expenses of Vance, my head of accounting.
The Cayman receipts. The software logs. Clean.
"How?" I ask.
"You were looking for a security breach." She tilts her chin, watching me with that quick, defiant intelligence I've started to want around. "You were looking at the guards. You should've been looking at the balance sheet. Money leaves a trail, Lorcan. You just have to know how to read it."
I look up at her.
This is nothing I expected. I know she’s a smart woman, and it always takes me by surprise, but a clean audit? She had been working on this.
I've been trying to cage her to keep her safe, and the whole time she's been sharper than anything I've ever held. She's a partner. I'm happy she's here—stupidly, simply happy, and I don't know what to do with it. I look at the file, then back at her.
"Kieran." My voice drops.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Bring Vance down here. Alone."
Atara doesn't blink. She just watches me, her eyes dark and unreadable.
"You sure?" Kieran's hand moves toward his sidearm.
"Look at the file."
He leans over and scans it. A low curse leaves him. "Son of a bitch."
"Take him," I say.
Vance sits in a wooden chair, hands on his knees. Older, gray at the temples, in a suit worth more than a guard earns in a year. He looks composed, but his eyes keep moving, checking the shadows.
He sees me and stands, the polite smile already in place. "Lorcan. I'm not sure what the urgency is, but—"
"Sit down, Vance."
I pull up a second chair and sit directly across from him, placing the ledger Atara has compiled on the table between us. I slide it forward until it hits his knuckles.
He looks at the ledger. He doesn't touch it.
"I don't understand," he says.
"You’ve been skimming since the second quarter of last year," I say. My voice is conversational. "You route the difference through a shell company. You use the logistics software to hide the gaps. It is clever, Vance. It is also the reason you are not going to be walking out of here."
Vance’s face goes rigid. The polite mask finally shatters. He looks old, suddenly. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"I’m not a judge, Vance. I don't need a defense," I say. I lean forward. "I just need to know one thing. How much does Silas pay you for my routes?"
He stares at me, his lip trembling. "He tells me you are finished. That you are a liability. I am just... I am saving myself."
"You aren't saving yourself," I say, standing up. "You are selling me."
I signal to the guards by the door. "Take him."
"Lorcan, please—"
I don't look back. I walk out, the concrete floor vibrating under my boots. I don't want to hear the rest. I have what I need.
I go straight to the East Wing and find her in the sunroom, watching the mountains. She's on the rug with a book in her lap, not reading. She looks up as I come in, guarded, until her eyes land on me and something in them eases.
"It's done," I say.
She sets the book down. "Is he gone?"
"He's gone."
I cross to her and stop, hands in my pockets. "You found what we missed. Twice."
"I'm good at my job." Calm, with a flicker of pride in the set of her chin.
"You are."
I stand there looking at her. She seems small in the middle of the room, but the air around her isn't the trapped, frightened air of a hostage anymore.
"You should pay me," she says.
It's the most direct she's ever been. No stutter. She just waits.
A smile pulls at me—rare enough that I notice it happening. I reach down, take her hand, and draw her up. She comes without hesitation and stops in front of me, eyes on mine.
"You're tired," I murmur.
"I'm exhausted," she admits.
I walk her toward the bedroom, and she comes, her hand tight in mine. For once it doesn't feel like keeping a captive. It feels like keeping an equal.
The room is dim, the evening light coming through the curtains in long gold stripes. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull her between my knees, trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear. I look at her—really look.
"You're staying," I say.
"I'm staying," she answers.
I kiss her. It is slow and deliberate. We move together, the sheets cool and smooth beneath our skin. Everything feels heightened. The way she makes that small, hitching sound when I kiss the sensitive skin at the base of her throat.
"I have the ledger," she whispers against my neck, her breath hot. "I found your reward."
"Have you?" I growl, pulling her hair back so I can see her face. Her eyes are dark, glazed with desire. "And what is it?"
"You," she breathes. "You're the reward."
I don't wait. I pin her wrists to the mattress, my body settling over hers, heavy and hard.
I dive into her. I trail my tongue from the hollow of her throat, down the line of her collarbone, and over the rise of her breast. I take a nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, using my tongue to swirl around the sensitive tip until she is arching her back and crying out my name.
My hand moves down, over the flat of her stomach, tracing the curve of her hip before sliding between her thighs.
She is slick for me. I slide one finger inside her, then two, stretching her, exploring the tight, pulsing heat that only belongs to me. She bucks against my touch, her legs tangling with mine, her body desperate for more.
"Please," she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Lorcan, please."
I pull my fingers out, shifting my weight to position myself. I am thick, I am heavy, and I need to be inside her. I press the head of my cock against her entrance, dragging it up and down the length of her slit until she is whimpering.
"Say it," I growl. "Tell me you’re mine."
"I'm yours," she sobs. "I'm yours. Just give it to me."
I move into her.
The sound of our skin slapping together is a wet, rhythmic pulse in the quiet room.
Every thrust is deep, hard, and purposeful.
I move with a steady, driving rhythm, my eyes never leaving hers.
I watch the way her expression shifts—the way her eyes roll back, the way her lips part, the way she loses herself to the feeling.
I pull her legs up, hooking them over my shoulders, changing the angle so I can hit her deeper, harder. She gasps, her entire body going rigid as I find the spot she likes best.
"That's it," I whisper, my voice raw. "That's it."
I increase the pace, my movements becoming a blur of friction. She is moaning, her body convulsing, her inner walls clamping down around me like a vice. I am right behind her, my own release clawing at my throat, a heavy, searing heat that I can no longer suppress.
I slam into her one last time, deep and bruising, and the world shatters.
She screams, a long, high-pitched wail that fills the room, her body shaking violently as she peaks. I follow her over the edge, my body locking, a raw, guttural roar leaving my throat as I pump my release deep inside her.
I stay there, buried, my head resting in the crook of her neck, my breath coming in jagged, heavy bursts. She is quiet now, her body limp beneath mine, her hand resting over my heart.
"You lost the bet," I murmur against her skin.
She lets out a soft, tired laugh. "I didn't lose. I negotiated."
I pull back, looking at her, and my heart feels like it is going to burst.
"And the reward?" she whispers, her eyes drowsy, her lips bruised. "What’s the reward for the audit?"
I smile, a slow, predatory grin that I’ve never shown anyone else. I reach down, tucking a curl behind her ear, my thumb grazing her cheek.
"The reward," I say, my voice a low, raspy whisper, "is that you’re staying. You’re not going to New York. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here, in this house, in this room, with me."
She looks at me, her gaze steady and sharp, her eyes shining in the dark.
"Is that a threat or a promise?" she asks.
I don't answer. I just kiss her, slow and deliberate, a deep, lingering press of mouths that feels like a homecoming.
I’m a man who lives in the dark, but looking at her, I feel like I’ve finally found the light. And I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her, the smell of vanilla and ozone and blood.
I’m finally, terrifyingly, exactly where I belong.