“You like her,” he says. Not a question.
“I married her.”
“That’s not what I said.”
I hold his gaze. My eldest brother reads people the way I read financial statements—line by line, looking for discrepancies. There’s no point in lying.
“I more than like her.” The pen stills between my fingers. “When she’s not with me, I’m counting the minutes until we’re together. I’ve never had that with anyone. I didn’t think I was built for it.”
Lorcan’s grin eases into genuine warmth. “She is pretty cool. And she agreed I was handsome, which obviously makes her a woman of superior taste and intellect.”
“She was being polite,” Declan snorts. “But I like her too. She’s got backbone and integrity.”
“She does appear genuine,” Cillian adds. “No agenda, no calculation. Makes Ma’s parade of senators’ daughters and society heiresses look like piranhas.”
“Theyarepiranhas,” Lorcan says.
I didn’t realize until now how much I needed their acceptance. The tension I’ve been carrying loosens a fraction.
“Speaking of the Children of Light Enclave.” Cillian’s expression shifts, and every brother in the room registers the change. He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a folder. “We have a problem.”
He spreads three pages across the desk. I recognize intelligence reports—typed summaries from our network of informants, the people embedded in law enforcement, politics, and the criminal underground who funnel information to us in exchange for protection or payment.
“Finn’s been hearing rumors for the past six weeks,” Cillian says. “Credible sources—two independent, one corroborated by his contacts in the trafficking task force.”
Trafficking. The word lands on the desk alongside the intelligence reports, and no one breathes.
“Clive Buford,” Cillian continues, his voice monotone, “is believed to be dealing in the flesh trade. More specifically, the buying and selling of women, some may even be from his own Enclave. The intel suggests he’s been running a side operation for years—identifying members who won’t be missed, packaging them as ‘transfers to sister communities,’ and moving them through a pipeline connected to outside buyers.”
I don’t move. I don’t blink.
“How long?” My voice comes out level. It shouldn’t. “How long has this been going on?”
Cillian glances at the reports. “Best estimate—five to seven years. Possibly longer.”
I’ve been reviewing the Enclave’s financial books quarterly for the past four years. Sixteen visits. Sixteen times I sat across a desk from Buford, shook his hand, nodded at his neatly kept ledgers, and drove away satisfied that the arrangement was clean and profitable.
My fingers dig into the arms of the chair until the leather groans. Bile climbs my throat. I swallowed handshakes from a man who was selling women while I laundered his books.
“The money wouldn’t show in the agricultural ledgers.” I force my brain into analytical mode. “He’d keep a separate set.Off-ledger. Cash transactions, probably—the buyers would want anonymity.”
“The question is,” Cillian says, “what do we do about it?”
“First we need proof,” I say, thinking aloud. “And if we get it, the last thing we want is a human trafficking ring operating on O’Rourke land.”
Cillian nods in agreement.
“The Iron Guardians,” Lorcan says.
All heads turn to him.
Declan raises a brow. “The motorcycle club?”
Lorcan straightens. “They specialize in trafficking rescues and rehabilitation. Ex-military leadership. They’ve dismantled three rings in the Midwest in the past two years. I know a couple of their members. Viper’s the club president. We’ve crossed paths a few times. They’re solid.”
“If the trafficking is confirmed,” Cillian says. “But I want evidence—clear and undeniable—before we move. No premature action that gives Buford a chance to scatter.”
“I’ll reach out to Viper,” Lorcan says. “Set up a meeting.”
