26. Lorcan
Lorcan
The ride to the gala is a chore. The car is silent, save for the hum of the road and the occasional static of the comms, but my focus isn't on the port logistics anymore.
It’s on the leg pressed against mine. Fuck.
Atara is wearing a dress that’s basically a suggestion of silk, a deep, blood-red thing that leaves nothing to the imagination.
My hand is on her thigh, my thumb tracing the line where the fabric ends.
I can’t stop touching her. I keep needing to check she’s there, solid and real, and every time my skin brushes hers, the car feels like it’s shrinking.
If this weren't a public event, if I didn't have a trap to spring, I’d turn the car around and keep her in that bedroom for another three days. I’m starting to hate the way the rest of the world demands my time.
"Stop that," she murmurs, though she doesn't pull her leg away. She’s looking out the window, her jaw set, but her hand has drifted toward mine, her fingers twitching near my wrist.
"Stop what?" I ask. My voice is lower than I intended. I slide my hand a little higher, feeling the soft, warm curve of her skin.
"You’re being… clingy. It’s unprofessional."
"I’m not being clingy," I say, and I let my hand rest heavily on her thigh. "I’m being possessive. There's a difference."
She finally turns to look at me. Her hair is pinned up, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck, and the red dress makes her look like a threat.
She’s nervous, I can see it in the way she’s gripping her clutch, but she’s hiding it well.
She’s built like a storm, even when she’s trying to play the part of a socialite.
"We’re almost there," she says, her voice steady. "Just remember the plan. Don't engage Silas directly until the perimeter collapses."
"I know the plan," I say. I squeeze her thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. "And you. You stay in my shadow. If I’m not in your line of sight, you’re not safe."
"I’m not a child, Lorcan."
"No," I agree, my gaze dropping to the swell of her breasts against the silk. "You’re much more dangerous than that."
The gala is a high-society circus held in a sprawling, glass-walled ballroom overlooking the strip.
The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and the underlying, metallic tang of too many weapons in one room.
It’s a target-rich environment, and I’ve got my men tucked into every corner, disguised as servers, bartenders, and security detail.
I don't let go of her hand. I walk through the ballroom like I’m patrolling a beat, my eyes constant, scanning the crowd.
I’m looking for Silas, for the tell-tale twitch of a guard, for the subtle signal of a breach.
But as I navigate the room, I feel the weight of every eye on us.
They’re watching. They’re whispering. They see the Don with a woman he hasn't paraded around before, and they’re trying to calculate what it means.
Good. Let them do the math.
And then, I see him.
Mark.
I’d clocked him on the guest list days ago.
My security team had flagged him as a low-level accountant, a nobody, a glorified pencil pusher for a firm that holds a few Syndicate contracts.
But that wasn't what mattered. I’d seen the way Atara went rigid when I showed her the list. I’d done the digging.
I knew exactly who he was, the ex who discarded her like a piece of office equipment.
He’s across the floor, nursing a scotch, wearing a suit that’s two sizes too expensive for his ego. He looks like a man who’s trying very hard to act like he belongs in a room where people get killed for mispronouncing a name.
I look down at Atara. Her eyes are locked on him. She isn't blinking.
"You want to handle that?" I ask, my voice a low rumble.
She blinks, tearing her gaze away from him. She looks at me. "Handle what?"
"You can walk away," I say. I could end him right now. I could have Kieran pull him into a back room and make him disappear before the hors d'oeuvres are served. But watching her? The way her posture has gone rigid? I’m curious. I want to see what she does when she’s holding the cards.
"No," she says. "I’m fine."
She starts walking. She doesn't even wait for me. She just weaves through the crowd, heading straight for him. I follow, staying three steps back, watching the room’s reaction.
Mark sees her. His face goes through a series of rapid, pathetic shifts—shock, then a smooth, practiced charm, then something darker. He sets his glass down, his movements hurried.
"Atara?" He laughs, but it sounds like a dog barking. "What in the hell are you doing here? Did you follow me? Is that it? You’re still obsessing?"
He’s loud enough that a few people nearby turn to look.
He wants an audience. He wants to show his new peers that he’s the kind of guy who has women chasing him.
He looks at me, then back at her, his grin thin and sneering.
"I didn't realize the help was invited to the party.
Or are you just looking for a new job? You always were good at fetching things. "
Atara doesn't blink. She doesn't even look insulted. She looks at him like he’s a bug she’s considering stepping on.
"You’re working for Silas, Mark," she says. Her voice is calm, perfectly pitched to cut through the hum of the ballroom. "I’ve seen the account structures. I know about the North Pass routes. You’re not an accountant. You’re a middleman for a man who’s about to lose everything."
Mark’s face drains of color. He glances around, his eyes darting to the nearby tables.
He lowers his voice, but the panic is there, bleeding through the edges.
"Don't talk like that. You don't know what you're saying. You’re just a bitter ex with a grudge.
Go home, Atara. Before I have you removed. "
"You’re embezzling," she continues, perfectly smooth.
"You’ve been skimming off the top of the Northern logistics firm for months.
You think Silas won't notice? You think he won't figure out that the gaps in his inventory match the timing of your promotions? He’s not going to fire you, Mark. He’s going to make you disappear. "
Mark’s composure breaks. He steps into her space, his hand coming up as if to grab her arm. "Shut up! You crazy bitch, you don't know anything!"
He’s angry now. Genuine, emasculated rage. He’s realized that she isn't just talking; she’s dismantling his entire life in front of anyone who cares to listen. He lunges, his fingers reaching for her collar, his face twisted into something ugly.
"You’re following me? You think you can haunt me?" he spits, his hand tightening on her shoulder.
I move.
I don't think about the trap. I don't think about the perimeter. I’m just a man who sees someone putting their hands on what is his.
I cross the floor in three strides. I don't punch him. I just grab his wrist, twisting it until I hear the sickening pop of a tendon, and then I shove him backward. He hits the floor hard, sprawling in front of the Senator’s table.
The room goes silent. I don't care.
I look down at him, my eyes cold, my heart a frantic, thudding weight in my chest.
"Kieran," I say, my voice a low, gravelly snarl.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Take him out. Don't kill him here. Save it for later."
Kieran drags Mark away by his collar; Mark’s pathetic protests are silenced by a heavy hand over his mouth.
I turn back to Atara.
She’s standing there, chest heaving, her chin tilted up, her jaw set. She looks like a woman who has just closed a book and is ready to start a new, much more interesting one. There isn't a tremor in her hands. There isn't a shadow of fear in her eyes.
She’s the most dangerous thing in this room.
I don't say anything. I don't ask if she’s okay. I don't check for bruises. I just cross the space between us, take her face in my hands, and kiss her.
It’s not a soft kiss. It’s not a negotiation.
It’s an announcement. It’s slow, deliberate, and entirely unambiguous.
I hold her head steady, my thumbs pressing against the line of her jaw, and I pour everything I have into the press of my mouth against hers.
It’s a public statement, a claim that everyone in this room can see.
I pull back, my hand resting on the small of her back. She’s staring at me, her eyes wide, her lips swollen and damp. She doesn't pull away. She doesn't look down.
She leans into me.
I look up, scanning the room. The rival dons, the politicians, the soldiers—they’re all watching. They’ve seen it. They know who she is. They know who she belongs to.
Silas is going to see this. He’s going to know that I’ve stopped playing defense.
I look at Atara, and I see the fire in her eyes, the same fire I feel burning in my own blood.
"Good girl," I whisper.
She doesn't say a word. She just reaches out and takes my hand, her fingers interlacing with mine.
Now, Silas.
Let’s see what you do next.
The ballroom settles back into a humming, nervous energy, the kind of quiet that follows a gunshot.
People are looking away, pretending they weren't just watching a display of utter, ruthless ownership. They’re afraid.
They’re smart enough to realize that I’ve just told them everything they need to know.
"You made a scene," Atara murmurs, her voice steady. She’s standing close to me, her body pressed against my side, her fingers still woven through mine.
"I made a statement," I correct.
"You’re going to be the talk of the table tonight," she says, a faint, sharp smile playing on her lips. "I hope you’re ready for the questions."
"I don't answer questions," I say. I keep my eyes on the room, scanning for the slightest tremor of a disruption. The trap is still in play. The perimeter is tight. "I provide answers."
She chuckles, a small, dark sound. "You’re an insufferable man, Lorcan O’Shea."
"And you’re a liability, Atara Ross." I tighten my grip on her hand, pulling her slightly closer, so her hip knocks against my leg. "But you’re a liability I seem to be unable to let go of."
She looks up at me, and for a second, the cold, sharp mask she wears drops. Her eyes are soft, filled with a look I haven't earned yet, but I can feel it pulling at me, drawing me in like a tide.
"Maybe I don't want you to," she whispers.