Page 12 of Legacy Of Ashes
He stands behind the desk where I once pressed myself against him three years ago, desperate and wanting. Where his hands tangled in my hair and his mouth tasted like whiskey and sin. Where footsteps in the hall broke us apart before we could finish what we started.
I push the memory down and move to the wall map. "Show me."
Conall joins me, his sleeve brushing mine as he points to the northern borders. Every nerve ending sparks at the contact.
"Here. Three trucks, men with guns. They chose well—that warehouse generates two million annually."
"What's the standard response?"
"Diplomatic first. Meet with their underboss, negotiate new boundaries." His finger traces shipping routes while I try not to think about those same hands on my skin. "Maybe offer a small concession to keep the peace."
"That's what my father would do?"
"Yes."
I study the map, noting the Moretti territories spreading like cancer through our northern borders. They're testing us. Testing me.
"Burn theirs," I say.
Conall goes still. "What?"
"Their warehouse on Atlantic Avenue. Burn it." I turn to face him, close enough to see his pupils dilate. "Tonight."
"Saoirse, that's?—"
"A message. They touched our territory. We touch theirs. Hard."
His breathing grows shallow. Something hungry and dangerous flickers in his eyes as he watches me.
"That warehouse employs forty people."
"Give them two hours to evacuate. Then burn it to the ground."
The air between us crackles. He searches my face for hesitation, finding none.
"You're not the same woman who left for Oxford."
Heat pools low in my belly at the way he says 'woman.' Like he's finally seeing me as one.
"I was never weak."
"No," he says, voice rough. "You weren't."
The memory crashes over me.
Christmas break, three years ago. I'd found him here, working late, firelight painting gold across his sharp features. The house slept around us as I entered without invitation.
"Whiskey?" He'd gestured to the bottle on the desk.
"I'm twenty-three, not fifteen."
"Old enough to make dangerous choices."
When I moved closer, close enough to smell sandalwood and leather, his control had fractured. His hands framed my face, mouth claiming mine with years of suppressed hunger.
He'd tasted like whiskey and home and everything I'd ever wanted. His teeth grazed my throat as he pressed me against this very desk, his hard length evident through his trousers.
"Fuck, Saoirse," he'd groaned, hands sliding under my sweater to cup my breasts. His thumbs found my nipples through lace, making me gasp into his mouth.
