35. Atara
Atara
I can hear his heartbeat. It’s too fast, a hard, heavy thump against his ribs that vibrates directly into my cheek. He is holding me so tight I can’t actually expand my lungs all the way, but I don’t tell him to let go. I don’t think I could stand up on my own if he did.
The silence of the warehouse is suddenly broken by the heavy screech of tires outside.
A second later, the double steel doors are shoved open, and Kieran bursts through, his gun raised, followed by three enforcers.
He stops, his eyes sweeping over the four dead guards, the blood on the concrete, and finally settling on us.
"Boss," Kieran pants, lowering his weapon slightly. "Perimeter is secure. We hit the trailing vehicles. Echo's wrapping it up."
Lorcan doesn't look at him. His chin is still pressed hard against the top of my head, his fingers dug into the fabric of my torn dress. "Take the girl," he growls, his voice a rough, gravelly vibration against my collarbone. "Get her to a medic."
I pull back just enough to look over my shoulder. Tania is still tied to her chair, her eyes wide, tears streaking through the dust on her cheeks. She looks terrified, but she’s breathing.
"Atara?" she whispers, her voice cracking.
"I'm okay, Tania," I say, trying to force my voice to sound steady. It doesn't really work. My jaw is throbbing, and my chest feels like it’s been run over by a truck, but I manage a small, shaky smile. "Go with Kieran. He’s... well, he’s one of the good guys, technically. He’ll take care of you."
Tania looks at Kieran, then at the massive, blood-stained man holding me like a lifeline. She swallows hard, nodding slowly. Kieran walks over, his knife slipping out to cut her zip-ties with practiced ease. He helps her stand, keeping his arm around her shoulder as he leads her toward the exit.
"We’ll clear the floor, boss," Kieran says, pausing at the door. "Give us ten minutes."
"Take fifteen," Lorcan mutters.
The doors grind shut behind them, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet.
The morning light is cutting through the high windows now, turning the dust motes in the air into glittering gold specks.
It’s a beautiful morning, which feels like a personal insult considering the amount of blood currently drying on my shoes.
I turn back to Lorcan. He’s staring down at me, his grey eyes dark, heavy, and completely exhausted. He reaches up, his rough, calloused thumb gently tracing the edge of my swollen eye. I flinch slightly, but I don’t pull away.
"You’re a mess," he whispers.
"Look who’s talking," I snap, though my voice has zero bite. I reach up and touch his cheek, my fingers coming away smeared with a mix of dust and Silas’s blood. "You have plaster in your hair. And you smell like a firing range."
"I had to get to you," he says simply.
He said it.
He signed away everything, and then he said he loved me.
My stomach does a slow, complicated flip that has absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline. I look at his broad shoulders, his dark, ink-covered skin, and the stubborn set of his jaw. He’s a monster. He’s a crime lord who locks people in wings and smashes burner phones. But he’s my monster.
"You're a massive pain in my ass, Lorcan O’Shea," I say, my chin tilting up.
"I'm aware," he says, a faint, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"And I love you," I say, the words coming out fierce, almost angry.
I glare at him, my hands fisting in the front of his shirt.
"Even though you’re a grumpy, overbearing caveman who doesn't understand the concept of personal space or basic boundaries.
I love you, and if you ever do something that stupid again, I will personally audit you into bankruptcy. "
Lorcan reaches out, his large hands framing my face, and pulls me in.
The kiss is deep, heavy, and completely unhurried.
It tastes like copper, salt, and the cold draft of the warehouse, but it carries the weight of every argument we’ve had, every silent standoff in the sunroom, and every night we spent pretending we weren't counting the seconds until the other walked into the room. It’s a promise, written in skin and breath, and I let myself sink into it, my hands sliding up his neck, my fingers tangling in the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is heavy, his forehead resting against mine. He lets out a slow, rough sigh.
"Atara," he says, his voice quiet, flat, and full of a specific, heavy dignity. "I have to tell you something."
Here it is.
"I'm listening," I say, stepping back just enough to look him in the eye.
"I'm a poor man now," he says, his eyes holding mine, completely unrepentant. "The transfer. I executed it. Every offshore account, every shell company, every holding in Vegas, it’s all gone. Silas’s routing numbers were verified. I had to do it to get him to drop the gun."
He says it like he’s describing a weather report, not the complete and total destruction of the empire he spent twenty years building out of blood and dirt. He’s standing there, bare-chested and covered in grime, ready to face the world as a beggar just because he wanted me to keep breathing.
I stare at him. My brain, usually a hyperactive calculator, completely stalls for three seconds.
"You... you actually did it?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, his jaw setting. "I’d do it again. I don't care about the castle, Atara. I’d rather live in a walkable studio in Brooklyn with you than be a king in a golden cage without you."
I look at his serious, grumpy face. I look at the absolute sincerity in his eyes.
And then, I start to laugh.
It starts as a small, hysterical bubble in my chest, and then it erupts. I’m laughing so hard my ribs scream in protest, my shoulders shaking as I cover my mouth with my hands.
Lorcan’s brow furrows, his expression shifting from solemn dignity to complete, irritated confusion. "Atara? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"You..." I gasp, trying to catch my breath, my swollen eye throbbing with the movement. "You really... You did the transfer."
"Yes," he growls, his hands falling to his sides. "It’s not funny. We have nothing. I have to figure out how to protect Maeve, how to get us out of the state—"
"Lorcan, stop," I giggle, wiping a tear from my good eye. I reach out and grab his hand, my fingers tracing his knuckles. "You're a genius at shooting people, but you are a terrible, terrible accountant."
"What are you talking about?"
"When I was first investigating your finances," I say, my voice returning to its normal, confident hum. I step closer, tapping his chest with my finger. "The ones Vance was skimming from. I didn't just audit the books, Lorcan. I built a decoy."
He goes completely still. "A decoy."
"A financial mirror," I explain. "A dummy shell. I constructed a false asset ledger, complete with mirrored routing codes, simulated offshore balances, and fake shell companies. I estimated that if Silas had a hacker on his payroll. which we knew he did, because of the phone tracking, he’d be looking for specific administrative access keys.
So I gave him ones that looked identical to the Syndicate's master ledger, but were mathematically locked into a sandbox environment. "
Lorcan’s grey eyes are wide now, staring at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. "A sandbox?"
"A closed loop," I say, a triumphant grin spreading across my face.
"It’s basic risk management. I migrated ninety-five percent of your actual liquid holdings, the Las Vegas properties, and the offshore pools into a pristine, clean account under a new encrypted protocol.
The other five percent remained active in the dummy shell to mimic liquidity and fool the automated sweeps.
What Silas received, the master bypass code you executed on your phone was the dummy.
The shell. The elaborate, beautiful financial fiction a twenty-three-year-old built on a borrowed tablet in a compound she was supposedly trying to escape. "
The silence in the warehouse returns, but this time, it’s Lorcan who’s frozen. He looks at me, his mouth slightly open, his brain trying to process the fact that his entire empire is still sitting safely in a bank account he didn't even know existed.
"You... you kept the money?" he whispers.
"I kept the money," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "You still have everything, Don O’Shea. You’re still the king of your little desert castle. You’re welcome, by the way."
Lorcan stares at me for a long, heavy beat. The confusion on his face slowly melts away, replaced by a dark, stunned awe that makes his chest heave. He lets out a low, rough chuckle, shaking his head.
"You devilish woman," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration.
"I told you I was your best match," I say, stepping into his space, my eyes finding his. "You deal in bullets, Lorcan. I deal in the numbers behind them. We’re an equation that balances perfectly."
"God help me," he whispers, a slow, predatory grin finally spreading across his face. "You’re right."
He grabs my waist, lifting me slightly off the concrete, and kisses me again.
This time, there’s no desperation, no lingering fear of Silas, and no grief.
It’s a clean, dominant claim, and for the first time since Ireland, I don't feel like a captive.
I don't feel like cargo he’s trying to relocate.
I’m staying. By my own choice. By my own rules.
"Let’s go home," I murmur against his lips.
"Yeah," Lorcan says, his hand resting firm on the small of my back. "Let's go home."