The brotherhood files out, leaving me alone with Catriona in the cottage. She starts to speak, and I cut her off with a raised hand.
"Don't." I move to the weapons cabinet, pull out the gear I'll need. "Don't argue about the terms. Don't tell me you can handle yourself. I know you're capable. I also know that if the Russians suspect anything, if this handoff goes wrong, my tiger will tear apart everyone in range until there's nothing left but blood and bodies."
"Kian—"
"This isn't negotiable." I hold her gaze. "You want to help? You want to build your case and get those selkies to safety? Fine. But you do it on my terms, which means you stay where we can protect you."
She plants her feet. "I'm not some damsel who needs protecting."
"No. You're a human documenting a handoff between a double agent and the Russian mob from inside a warehouse." I step closer, let her see the predator that lives beneath my skin. "If you get killed, that's on me. So you stay with the brotherhood, you follow their lead, and you don't take stupid risks. Understood?"
She doesn't look away. "What if something happens to you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You're so focused on protecting me that you're not thinking about the fact that you could get hurt. Or killed." Her voice drops. "What am I supposed to do if that happens?"
The vulnerability in the question does dangerous things to my control. "If something happens to me, you go with the brotherhood. They'll get you out. You survive."
"That's not?—"
"Promise me." I catch her wrist, pull her close enough that I can feel her heartbeat.
Her expression changes, and she says quietly, "Only if you promise the same."
I should lie. I should tell her what she needs to hear. But I've never been good at comfortable lies.
"I'll try."
It's the only truth I can give her. She nods once and steps back.
I reach into the weapons cabinet. The gear I need is familiar. The Glock I've carried for three years, backup magazine, the tactical knife strapped to my thigh. I check each piece with the kind of muscle memory that comes from years of preparing for violence.
The silver-edged blade sits in the back of the cabinet. I've carried it since Dublin, before the brotherhood, before the syndicate. Before everything went to hell.
I withdraw the knife, test the balance. Still perfect. Still deadly.
"Take this." I press it into her palm.
She studies the blade, tests the weight. "This is expensive. Military grade."
"It's silver-edged." I close her fingers around the handle. "Just in case."
"In case of what?"
I meet her stare. The truth I've been avoiding sits between us. "In case I can't protect you and you need to protect yourself from things that don't die easy."
Understanding dawns across her face. Fear follows, sharp and bright. But she doesn't give the knife back. She doesn't refuse the truth of what we're driving toward.
"Okay." She tucks the blade into her jacket. "Let's get them home."
The sun has set by the time we head out to the truck. Darkness settles across the island like a shroud, and somewhere in my warehouse, three selkies wait for transport to safety while the Russians arrive expecting a simple artifacts transaction.
I climb into the driver's seat. Catriona slides in beside me, the silver-edged blade a reassuring weight against her ribs.
Soon I'll stand in front of Dimitri and his crew with Catriona nearby, documenting the transaction while the brotherhood moves rescued selkies out the back—until I find out if they suspect me enough to make a move, or if they're still deciding whether saving a cop was loyalty to territory or betrayal to the syndicate.
I start the engine. Catriona's hand finds mine on the gearshift, just for a moment.
