He grips my wrist, his fingers firm but gentle, stopping me. “I think not, Luv.”
My pulse spikes at his dark and heavy gaze. “The sight of you naked already has me hard enough, Lexie. I don’t need your pretty fingers skatin’ along my skin, too. We both need a rest, or neither of us is gettin’ any sleep tonight.”
He drops his pants. I glance down, parting my lips, resisting the urge to lick them. Yeah…his “happy” state is very much present.
A bit of sassy Lexie pride flickers. “Okay. Tomorrow. Just try not to sleepwalk yourself into killing another asshole tonight, okay? I’m all out of vomit for the evening.”
His chuckle reverberates through the room. “I’ll do me best, Darlin’.”
The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs in. He’s a wall of solid, radiating heat as he wraps his arm around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. I sigh, welcomingthe safety of his hold and his scent—rain and expensive whiskey and a sense ofhome.
I close my eyes, a single prayer echoing in my mind as sleep finally claims me.
Please don’t let me wake up from this book.
CHAPTER 16
Liam
The air in Conor O’Connell’s private study is stale, recycled, and smells faintly of lemon polish and secrets. It’s been five days since the ball. Five days of letting Lexie and River explore the grounds, letting them laugh and bond while I’ve stayed locked in this room, staring at screens far too long.
I’m hunting ghosts.
Or rather, I’m hunting the rot.
I scroll through another encrypted ledger, the blue light reflecting in my glasses. I’ve been systematically cutting the cancer out of the Family business for months, ending my father’s trafficking routes, burning the bridges with the cartels, pivoting everything toward high-stakes shipping, arms, and tech. Legitimacy. Or as close to it as a man like me can get.
But cancer doesn’t like to be cut out. It fights back.
And someone is bleeding money because of my conscience.
The list of suspects is long enough to pave a road to hell. The Old Guard is the longest: men who worshipped my father’s brutality and see my “morals” as weakness. Private investors lost millions when I shut down certain shipment lines. Family, close or distant, is no exception.
My tablet pings. A security alert.
I don’t reach for my gun. If they were here to kill me, there wouldn’t be a ping.
The side door opens, and a man slips inside. He’s dressed in black, inconspicuous. Cian. The Ghost. One ofmypersonal loyal guards.
“You look like shit, Donovan,” he rasps dryly.
“Charming as ever, Cian.” I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Tell me you have something.”
Cian doesn’t sit. He never sits. He stalks to the edge of the desk and drops a small, encrypted drive onto the mahogany. “The trap worked. We traced the chatter regarding your ‘relocation’ to the safehouse in the Catskills.”
A cold, grim satisfaction settles in my gut. I leaked false info that I was moving there to recover from my injuries.
“Who took the bait?”
“Two channels,” Cian says, crossing his arms. “Your uncle, Eamon. And your manager, O’Malley.”
I close my eyes for a split second. Eamon. My father’s brother. The man who taught me how to throw a knife. A little too Hamlet-cliche for my taste. But the butler-like manager betrayal isn’t much better.
“The safehouse was raided two hours ago,” Cian continues. “Professional hit squad. They went in heavy. If you’d been there…”
“I’d be dead.”
“In pieces,” Cian corrects. “They weren’t there to capture.”
