Page 97 of The Thief
"Good. Because I meant what I said. I'd chase you to the ends of the earth."
"And when you caught me?"
"I'd convince you to stay. Again and again, as many times as it took."
She laughs softly. "That sounds exhausting."
"Worth it, though."
"Is it?"
"You tell me."
She tilts her head up, studying my face in the dim light. "Ask me again tomorrow. When the world isn't ending and we're not hiding from killers."
"Fair enough."
But I already know the answer. Whatever this is between us, whatever we've just started, it's worth everything. Worth the fear, the uncertainty, the danger that comes with loving someone in our world.
Worth fighting for.
Worth dying for.
Worth killing for.
She settles back against my chest, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claims her. This time when she sleeps, there are no nightmares. Just peace, warmth and solid in my arms.
Mine. Finally, completely mine.
And I'm never letting her go.
The call comes just as Alastríona's breathing has finally evened out into peaceful sleep.
Maverick's name is on my phone screen. Never good news when he calls this early.
"What?" I answer quietly, slipping out of bed so I don't wake her.
"We need to search Marcus' house. Now, before anyone else thinks to do it."
"Why now?"
"Because I'm sick to my back teeth of Henry having second thoughts. He keeps saying maybe we got it wrong, maybe Marcus was set up. If we're going to find proof, we need to do it before the old man convinces himself his oldest friend was innocent. I've got enough shit to deal with without listening to him calling me at three in the damn morning."
I check the time. Six-thirty. Early enough that the neighbors won't be watching, late enough that Marcus' house should be empty. Perfect timing for a breaking and entering that could give us the evidence we need.
"Twenty minutes," I say.
"I'll pick you up," he says after I’ve given him the address to the safe house.
I dress quietly and write a note for Alastríona in case she wakes up before I get back.
Gone to tie up loose ends. Back soon. Don't leave the house.
Simple, direct. She'll understand.
The drive to Marcus' place takes us through Dublin's quiet morning streets. Office workers heading to early shifts, joggers getting their exercise before the day heats up. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that last night their city almost became a war zone.
Marcus lives in Blackrock, an expensive neighborhood where old money goes to pretend it's respectable. His house is Georgian, three stories of perfectly maintained limestone that probably cost more than most people see in a lifetime.
