Chapter 1
Cillian
The place reeks of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke. Seamus Murphy is sweating through his stained shirt as he stammers out the offer that should get him killed on principle alone.
“She’s a good girl, Mr. O’Rourke. Doesn’t complain. Does what she’s told. She’s worth fifty grand, I swear it.”
I don’t respond. Finn shifts his weight beside me, his hand moving closer to the gun under his jacket. He’s thinking what I’m thinking—the world might be a better place with one less Seamus Murphy in it.
The apartment is what I expected—broken furniture, empty bottles scattered across every surface, shut-off and eviction notices piled on the counter. But there are other things too—things that don’t fit. A corner of the kitchen looks clean. Dishes are drying in a rack. Laundry is folded in a basket by the couch.
Someone is trying to hold this shithole together.
“Pretty, clean, never been with a man—” Murphy continues.
“Shut the fuck up.” The words come out flat. Ice-cold.
Heshuts up.
I didn’t come here for this. I came to collect a debt or break some bones. Standard enforcement. Nothing personal. Murphy gambled money he didn’t have with people he shouldn’t have crossed, and now he owes. Simple.
This isn’t simple.
A door opens down the hall. I turn as a slight, young woman appears, holding a dish towel, gripping it with white knuckles.
Too thin. That’s my first thought. A bruise darkens her cheekbone. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wears an oversized sweatshirt and jeans that are worn through from use.
Her eyes meet mine for a split second. They’re hazel, and wide with fear.
Then she drops her gaze to the floor.
Irritation flares in my gut. This is getting complicated, and I hate complications. I should walk away. Tell Finn to beat Murphy into the hospital and write off the debt as a loss.
I don’t. My gaze moves back to her.
There’s a way she stands. Perfectly still, hunched—making herself smaller. When Murphy gestures toward her, she flinches.
The flinch hits me like a suckerpunch and rage slices its way through my irritation. Someone taught her to expect pain.
“Boss,” Finn murmurs. A warning. We should take what we came for and leave.
Murphy is talking again, desperate, drunk, and slurring. “She cooks, cleans, won’t give you any trouble. I raised her right, I did. She’ll do whatever you want?—”
“I said shut the fuck up.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.
My eyes remain on the girl. She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t made a sound. She’s not crying or begging. She’s waiting. Like she’s not surprised. Or maybe like she knew something like this was coming eventually.
If I leave her here, either Murphy will beat her to death one night in a drunken rage, or he’ll sell her to someone else. Someone worse.
The bruise on her face is fresh.
I make a decision I know I’ll regret.
“What’s your name?” I direct the question at her, not him.
She hesitates. Looks at her father. He’s nodding frantically, urging her to answer.
“Nora.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
