Cillian sits beside me, one knee bouncing, one hand on the grip of the gun holstered at his thigh. But the other hand—his left—rests over mine. Not gripping. Not holding. Just… there. Heavy. Warm. A tether.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs without looking at me.
“I know,” I whisper. But I don’t feel it until he squeezes once. Just once. Enough.
Rouge glances at us in the rearview. “Not a tail in sight,” he says. “And we’re right on schedule. We’ll be in Dublin in an hour tops.”
I nod. I’ve stayed in one of Cillian’s flats before—but not this one. There are always secrets. Always safehouses tucked between the cracks of the city. But this one? This is the one he never talks about. The one under a fake name and a forged deed. The one he told me once—years ago, in another lifetime—was his dream home for the life he’d never get to live.
A life without blood. Without Darragh. Without the business. A life where he wasn’t born to be the Devil’s heir.
The road straightens. The trees fall away. And then—slowly, like a curtain rising—the glow of Dublin stretches across the horizon.
Warm. Golden. Alive.
My chest tightens, because this city has always loved me in ways no person has managed to without conditions. And hated me in equal measure when given the chance. Tonight, I don’t know which version I’m driving into.
Thecityisadifferent creature at this hour. Dublin at 2 a.m. feels like it’s holding its breath—streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks, pubs gone quiet, taxis prowling like lone wolves hunting the last drunk stragglers. Neon reflects in puddles from a rain that must’ve passed through minutes before we arrived.
Rouge weaves through traffic lights that are mostly green because the universe is doing us one courtesy tonight. Cillian hasn’t let go of my hand once.
We turn down a narrow side street I’ve never noticed before—wedged between a florist and a bakery that looks closed for the season. The building looks… plain. Boring. A place you’d walk by a hundred times without seeing. Which is exactly the point.
Rouge pulls into the short brick driveway, stops, and rolls down his window toward what looks like a rusty call box. Except he doesn’t press anything on the box. He taps a hidden panelbeneath it. A soft chime answers. Then the pavement beneath us rumbles.
“Hold on,” Rouge mutters.
The ground shifts. The entire driveway begins tosink, lowering us smoothly beneath the building like some secret stage trick in a theatre I don’t remember buying a ticket for.
My breath stutters. “Cill…”
“Safe,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my knuckles. “You’ll see.”
The cement walls glide past the windows as we descend one level, then two. The air grows cooler, darker, until tiny strips of LED lighting flicker on along the walls. A massive underground garage opens up beneath us—sleek, clean, empty except for two cars I’ve never seen before, a matte-black motorcycle, and shelves of gear that definitely isn’t for camping.
The moment the platform settles, Rouge drives off it. Seconds later, with a soft hydraulic hiss, the driveway above us rises and seals the world out. A perfect hiding place. A perfect lie.
“Home sweet home,” Rouge says, swinging the SUV into a parking spot with a flourish.
Cillian’s hand tightens in mine as he leans close, voice low enough to be a secret all on its own. “Come on, dove,” he murmurs. “Let me show you where we’re sleeping tonight.”
The garage is silent when Rouge kills the engine. The kind of quiet that feels intentional—engineered—like even the air is part of the security system. Cillian steps out first, then offers his hand to me. I take it, because my legs are still a bit unsteady and because he hasn’t let go of me since we left the estate. Rouge hits a panel on the wall, and a sleek metal elevator door slides open like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream.
“Up we go,” Rouge mutters, stepping in last and hitting a code so fast I don’t catch a single number.
The elevator rises smoothly, no cables, no sound—just a slow glide that almost feels unreal. Then the doors open, and my breath leaves me. The flat is…God. It’s gorgeous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows curve around the living room in a wide arc, giving a panoramic view of Dublin at night. The city lights shimmer across the river—reflected in dark water like scattered stars. The furniture is simple—clean lines, warm woods, creams and charcoal tones. No clutter. No chaos. Just peace and precision.
Cillian’s peace. Cillian’s precision.
He steps out first and reaches back for me, palm warm against mine as he leads me through the space. “Windows are tinted,” he explains quietly. “We see out. No one sees in. Not even with scopes.”
I swallow. “This is… beautiful.”
He looks at me then—not at the flat, not at the view.Me.Like he’s checking to see if I feel safe yet. Like my opinion of this sanctuary matters more than anything he owns.
Rouge whistles, slow and appreciative, as he sets his bag down. “Gonna run the systems,” he says, already scanning his badge at the security panel. “Trip wires, motion sensors, cameras—everything’s clear so far. But I’ll sweep again.”
