Page 7 of Legacy Of Ashes
"Right." Cillian closes his folder. "Conall, threat assessments on all rivals. Eamon, security review. Mother, keep our allies calm."
"And me?" I ask.
"You make sure we don't hemorrhage money while we're fighting fires." His smile is tired. "Think you can handle that?"
"I can handle whatever you need."
The words come out breathier than intended. Conall's nostrils flare like he caught my scent.
As the meeting breaks up, he approaches my chair. "I'm driving you home."
"I can call a cab?—"
"No." The command in his voice makes my core clench. "Things are different now. You need protection."
"From who?"
His gray eyes turn predatory. "Everyone who thinks a Kavanagh daughter makes perfect leverage."
The truth hits like ice water. By staying, I've painted a target on my back. The anonymity that kept me safe is gone.
"I can take care of myself," I say, though we both know it's a lie.
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat, to smell the whiskey on his breath.
"You're mine to protect now," he says low enough that only I hear. "Don't fight me on this."
Mine. The possessive word sends liquid heat straight to my core.
"Is that an order?"
His mouth curves in something too dark to be a smile. "It's a promise."
Before I can respond, he's moving away, leaving me breathless and aching and completely screwed.
Because Conall Devlin was dangerous enough when he kept his distance.
Now he's claiming me as his responsibility.
And God help me, I want to be claimed.
CHAPTER
FOUR
I findMother in the garden the next morning, deadheading roses with the precision of someone who's spent decades cutting away what doesn't serve her. The early sun catches the emerald in her wedding ring—a ring worth more than most people's houses.
"Walk with me," she says without looking up.
We move through paths she designed twenty years ago, past jasmine that blooms white against stone walls. This garden is Mother's kingdom—the one place she rules without question.
"Your brothers think you're playing house," she says, settling onto the bench beneath the old oak. "Pretending at business while they handle the real work."
"And you?"
Her smile could cut glass. "I think they're idiots. Just like their father."
She pulls a slim leather portfolio from her coat pocket. "Your father never knew about the Swiss accounts or the London properties." Satisfaction drips from every word. "Men see what they want to see."
