“Your da again?”
“Yup.”
We order drinks. Aoife starts dancing with some guy in a leather jacket. Niamh drags me onto the floor even though she knows I don’t relax easily. But tonight I try. This is my last night before stepping into someone else’s life.
I move. I let the alcohol loosen the edges. I let the beat drown out my father’s voice.
Then people move aside just enough to create a narrow path toward the private lounge above the floor. Security steps through first. Two men, both sharp, both alert, both trained well enough to scan a room in seconds.
Behind them comes a group I recognize from photos, and at the center is Cillian Byrne. I’ve seen pictures. I’ve heard stories. None of it prepares me.
He’s tall, with thick arms that strain the sleeves of his black shirt and a chest broad enough to fill a doorframe. His forearms are covered in ink—black wolves run along one, jaws open, eyes sharp. The other has a string of Latin words carved between faded hash marks and a small, clean cross like a gravestone. It looks earned.
His shirt is tucked tight into tailored black trousers, and there’s a faint scar running from under his left ear to the collarbone that makes him look even harder up close. No gold. No flash. Just a black watch and the kind of stillness that keeps a room in check. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold—icy blue, focused, and completely unreadable, and when they fall on me, my breath slips before I catch it.
He doesn’t look away and drags that gaze like he’s deciding whether to burn me or bend me.
Heat floods through even as Niamh leans in. “You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“That’s Byrne.”
“I know that too.”
Cillian’s eyes sweep over me once more before he disappears behind the curtain leading up to the VIP lounge. His guards follow. The curtain falls closed.
My pulse finally eases, but the heat stays under my skin. I finish my drink in one swallow, and Niamh’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re in a mood,” she teases.
“I’m in several.”
“You want another?”
Before I can answer, I feel movement at my back. Two of my father’s men—Gavin and Rory—step out of the crowd like they’ve been waiting for the right timing.
Gavin doesn’t bother with greetings. “Your father wants you home.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s barely midnight.”
“He said not to argue.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m declining.”
Rory crosses his arms. “We’re not leaving without you.”
I lift my chin. “Then you’re staying. Order a drink. Relax. Enjoy the music.”
Gavin exhales. “Saoirse.”
“I’m not doing this with you tonight,” I say. “I’ll be at the house before dawn. That’s enough.”
Gavin reaches for my arm. I pull back even though a muscle in his jaw twitches. Rory pretends not to notice. He hates touching me for any reason. He says I spark trouble the way other people spark static. “I’m going home when I’m ready,” I say. “Not before. Not because Da snapped his fingers.”
Gavin lowers his voice. “Don’t test him tonight.”
“I’m testing myself.”
They exchange a look that translates towe’ll get blamed for this later, but they don’t drag me out. They’re not stupid. I’m my father’s heir, trained since I could walk, and I carry knives in places polite women aren’t supposed to know about. If they force me, I’ll make it embarrassing.