He steps closer now, wiping his hands on his coat. “You always sit so calm while men poke about your stock?”
“I trust my inventory,” I say. “And I trust myself.”
He smirks. “Must be nice, growin’ up with lads to do your dirty work.”
There it is. The push.
I smile still, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “You’d be surprised how much I handle myself.”
“Aye?” he says, grin turning crude. “Bet you would.”
The room stills. His men shift, sensing it. I stand—not sharp, not dramatic. Just controlled. I step closer to him, heels clicking softly on concrete. Close enough now that the air changes.
“Declan,” I say quietly, “you’re doin’ well so far. Don’t ruin it by bein’ an eejit.”
His grin falters. “Touchy, aren’t we?”
“No,” I reply. “Just particular.”
My hand slips into my coat. I don’t draw the dagger. I don’t need to. I let my fingers rest around the hilt, grounding myself.
“I don’t like guns,” I say conversationally. “Too much distance. I prefer to know exactly who I’m dealin’ with.”
His eyes flick down. Back up. “You threatenin’ me now?” he asks, voice rougher.
I meet his gaze. Dead calm. “I’m remindin’ you where you are.”
Silence stretches. The heater hums uselessly.
Then he exhales, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Christ. Fine. No offence meant.”
“Good,” I say, withdrawing my hand, smoothing my sleeve. Lady again. “Because I’d hate for the craic to sour.”
He nods once. “Price stands then?”
“Aye,” I say. “Take it or leave it.”
He glances back at the crate. At his men. Then back to me.
“…Deal.”
I incline my head. “Dead on.”
The tension eases, but not fully. It never does. And somewhere deep in my chest, something tight and familiar hums— a warning note, low and waiting. Like a string pulled too far, too fast.
The crate is sealed again. Money’s been counted twice. Hands have been shaken—not warmly, but firmly enough to mean something. The tension hasn’t gone, but it’s settled into something workable. That’s usually how it ends. Declan lights a cigarette without asking. Typical. I don’t comment. He’s already won his small victory.
“Fair play, Lady Malloy,” he says around the smoke. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy the craic, but here we are.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”
He laughs, rough and loud. “Aye, well. You’re not half bad company—for a woman sellin’ guns.”
I smile again. Easy. Controlled. The sort that invites another drink, another word, another mistake.
“Careful,” I say lightly. “You’re nearly soundin’ fond.”
He grins. “Wouldn’t go that far.”
