24. Lorcan
Lorcan
That bastard is out there.
I try to focus on the gala that’s happening forty-eight hours from now, but all I can think of is that Silas is out there somewhere, likely watching, waiting to see which one of us strikes first.
And I’d fucking like to strike the fucker dead, but I have to think about my women, my daughter, and Atara. I can’t act recklessly.
I feel a strong, intense heaviness in my head. I haven't slept more than three hours a night in a week. My coffee is cold, my head is pounding, and my patience is non-existent.
I walk through the main corridor, checking the perimeter logs on my tablet. The new sensors are in place, the exterior gates are reinforced, and my men are doubled up on every shift. We’re locked down tight. It’s a fortress. It has to be.
I stop at the security station, tapping the glass. "Kieran, report."
"Perimeter is green, Boss. Nothing within five miles. No traffic, no drones, no signals. The local police are running standard patrols, and my boys are tracking them on the grid. We’re clear."
"Keep the grid tight," I say. "If a stray cat crosses the perimeter, I want to know about it."
I walk past the foyer, my boots echoing on the marble, and head for the War Room.
I need to run the tactical simulations one more time.
I need to be sure. I have to see where Silas could potentially force an entry, where the weak points are, and how many men we can realistically afford to lose if this goes south.
I hit the code for the War Room door. It slides open with a heavy hiss.
The room is dim, the main screens glowing with the schematics of the ballroom. But it’s not empty.
Atara is standing at the center table. She’s pulled the layout of the ballroom from the main display and is actively rearranging the security team's positions.
She has a stylus in her hand, dragging icons across the screen, pulling the blue squares representing my men into completely different spots.
I stop dead in the doorway. My hand tightens on the doorframe.
"What are you doing?" I ask. My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room.
Atara doesn't jump or gasp in shock like I expected, she doesn't even look up immediately. She drags one last icon into place, taps it, and then turns to face me. She’s wearing a fitted charcoal sweater that emphasizes her frame, and she looks like she hasn't slept either.
"The layout is garbage," she says, perfectly calm.
I walk over to the table, my eyes scanning the screen. She’s moved the perimeter guards. She’s shifted the mobile units. She’s completely undone the work Kieran and I spent three hours finalizing.
"The layout was calculated for maximum coverage," I say, my voice dropping, low and dangerous. "I put those men there for a reason. Do not touch the displays."
"The coverage is fine if you're guarding a bank," she says, ignoring my tone. "But this is a trap. You’re baiting Silas. If you leave the eastern flank here, you’re basically inviting him to run right through your center. You’re grouping the mobile units in a way that creates a bottleneck. If he breaches from the terrace, your team is trapped between the buffet and the wall. It’s basic geometry, Lorcan. "
"It’s not basic geometry," I snap. "It’s tactical positioning. You’re not a field commander. You don't know how these men move."
"I know how to read a layout," she fires back, her jaw tight. "I’m the reason you still have assets to protect. If I hadn't audited your books, your northern hubs would have been dismantled by now. I know where the money goes, and I know where the bodies are buried. I know how to track movement. You’re overestimating the defensive perimeter and underestimating how fast he’s going to move. "
I walk around the table, closing the distance until I’m standing right in front of her. She’s defiant, her head tilted up, her hands gripped on the edge of the table.
"You are not in charge of security," I say, my voice a low, raspy snarl. "You are not a soldier. You are not a strategist. You are a civilian who is currently in way over her head. Step away from the console."
"I’m the reason you’re still standing," she says, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated anger. "I’m the reason you’re not sitting in a pile of rubble. You can be the Don, and you can be the king, and you can be the tough guy, but you’re making a mistake."
I reach out and grab her by the jaw. My grip is firm, tilting her face up so I can look straight into her eyes. Her skin is hot, her pulse fluttering against my thumb.
"Stand down," I say.
She holds my gaze. She doesn't look away. She doesn't blink. "Make me."
The audacity of her. The absolute, stupid bravery of her.
Fuck! I don’t know what to do with her. I want to tell her off badly, and also kiss her at the same time.
My hand tightens on her chin, not hurting her, but forcing her to feel the weight of my command. I can see the frustration in her eyes, the way she’s fighting the urge to tear her face away, but she stays put.
"You have a mouth that is going to get you into a lot of trouble," I growl.
"Wanna do something about it," she whispers.
I move.
I grab her by the waist and spin her around, slamming her down onto the table. The tablet slides across the surface, hitting the floor with a clatter. She gasps, her hands flying out to catch herself, and I press my weight against her back, pinning her flat against the cool, dark wood.
I can feel the heat of her through her clothes. My dick is already throbbing, straining hard against my trousers. The way her body is pressed against mine is making my head spin.
I'm done playing all these games. I’m tired, I’m stressed, and I want her. I want to own this defiant, mouthy little auditor until she can’t think of anything but my name.
"You think you’re so smart," I growl into her ear, my hands sliding down to grip the waist of her jeans. I pull them down with one savage motion, exposing the silk of her panties. "You think you can just reorganize my men and question my orders?"
"I think the flank is exposed," she gasps, her head tilted slightly, her voice coming out in ragged hitches as I drag my hands up her thighs, tracing the soft, flushed skin.
"The flank is fine," I mutter, moving my hand to the front, finding her center. She’s already wet, the heat of her slicking my fingers. "It’s your mouth that’s the problem."
She groans, her forehead pressed against the wood of the table, but she moves backward ever so slightly, pressing her soft, round butt against me. "Lorcan..."
"Say it," I command, my fingers circling her, teasing, then plunging deep inside. She lets out a sharp, wet cry, her back arching, her body twisting to meet my touch. "Say you’re wrong."
"I’m... I’m not... wrong," she sobs, her fingers clawing at the desk.
I grip her hair, pulling her head back so she’s forced to look at me, but she’s staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide, glassy with need.
I start to fuck her with my fingers, slow, deep, maddening slides that make her entire body shudder.
I add a third finger, stretching her, filling her, listening to the wet, rhythmic sound of my own hand working.
"You little brat," I growl, leaning down to bite the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "You smart-mouthed, infuriating little brat. You think you’re a strategist?"
"I am," she gasps, her hips bucking against my hand.
"You’re a good girl," I whisper, the praise kink digging into her defenses like a wedge. She whimpers, her entire body going limp. "You’re such a good, smart girl. You’re going to be a perfect queen one day, but right now? You’re mine. And you’re going to show me exactly how much you belong to me."
I slide out, her juices coating my hand, and I don't wait. I can’t. This woman is killing me. If I wait any second more, my dick might blow up.
I unzip, my cock springing free, thick and pulsing. I press it against her entrance, dragging the head along the length of her slit, the friction making her scream.
She reaches back, her fingers grabbing my hair, pulling me down to kiss her. I crush her lips with mine, swallowing her sound, and then I drive inside her.
It’s neither slow nor soft. I enter her with a savage, possessive force, pinning her against the table until every inch of her is filled with me. I start to fuck her, my rhythm fast, hard, and relentless.
"That's it," I growl, my hands gripping her hips, bruising her skin, keeping her locked against me. "You’re mine. You hear me? You’re mine."
"Yes, yes," she cries, her body trembling under the force of my thrusts. "Lorcan! Oh god!"
I change the angle, my hips grinding against her, finding that perfect, agonizing spot that makes her scream. The sound is music. It’s the only thing that matters in the world right now, the sound of her falling apart, the sound of her surrender.
I pull out, leaving her aching for me, and then I slam back in, over and over, until the room is filled with the sound of our skin and the ragged, desperate noise of her breaking.
"Tell me," I growl, my teeth sinking into her shoulder. "Tell me you don't know what you're doing."
"I... I know... I know exactly... what I'm doing!" she screams, cumming all over my dick, her walls clamp down around me, squeezing, pulling, milking me.
Just then I lose it. I hit her harder, deeper, my own release clawing at my throat. I pump into her, a deep growl leaving my chest as I empty myself inside her, the heat of it scalding, possessive, complete.
I stay there, locked against her, my chest heaving, the silence of the room returning. She’s panting, her head resting on the table, her body still trembling.
I pull back, but I don't let her go. I turn her around, pulling her into my lap, her legs wrapped around my waist. She’s flushed, her hair a wild, tangled disaster, her eyes heavy and unfocused. She looks at me, and for a second, I see the girl from Ireland. But then, the fire comes back.
She straightens, her hands resting on my chest, her fingers tracing the ink on my skin. She looks... hungry.
She leans over, her hair falling over her face, and looks at the schematics on the table.
"The eastern flank," she says, her voice breathless but steady. "It’s still exposed."
I look at the screen. I look at her.
I let out a low, rough laugh, pulling her closer to my chest.
"You’re a nightmare," I whisper.
"And you’re a stubborn ass," she says, leaning her head against my shoulder.
I reach out, and with one flick of my finger, I drag the icon. I shift the mobile unit. I close the flank.
I fix the layout.
"There," I say.
"Better," she says, her lips turning up in a small, triumphant smile.
We sit in the dark, the weight of the war hanging over us, the silence of the compound pressing in. For the first time, I don't feel like the king who has to defend his throne. I feel like a man who has finally found a partner to share it with.
And as I look at her, I know that whatever happens in the next forty-eight hours—whatever Silas tries, whatever blood is spilled—we’re going to walk through the fire together.
"You’re going to be the death of me," I whisper, burying my face in the crook of her neck.
"Then I guess we’ll have to make it worth the trouble," she says.
I pull her closer, the world outside fading into the background, and I think about the gala. I think about the lights, the crowds, the danger.
I think about her in a dress.
I think about holding her hand in front of the world.
I’m never going to let her leave.