Page 5 of Bound

Rory follows me into the building and, subsequently, the elevator. He reaches around me and presses the button for Declan’s floor. Turning to face him, I sarcastically ask, “You moving in too? Will I at least be getting my own room? Or do you need to stay close enough that we will be sharing that, too?”

“You know I have to make sure you get upstairs,” he responds. He stares at me for a moment before imparting, “You do also know this is only going to get worse, right?”

“Worse?” I ask, my voice rising a few octaves in confusion. I am already followedeverywhere, forbidden from using the subway, have men standing outside my building, and God knows what else. How could it possibly be worse?

Rory pauses briefly, and I can’t help but think he is hesitating because he knows he’s crossing a line. “Declan has more security on that little girl than the president. You probably didn’t notice them because he has asked for discretion, so she doesn’t knowwe’re around. There are men on the street, in the lobby, patrolling his floor and the stairwells. Security cameras that cover nearly every inch of his home are monitored twenty-four-seven. A fly couldn’t land on her without someone knowing.”

The weight of what he’s saying hits me like a ton of bricks. “You mean…” I mumble.

“Younow have all of us following you and watchingeverymove you make.”

Marvelous…

Apparently, I should have asked a few more questions about this job. I’m about to push Rory for more information when the elevator dings and the doors open to the moderately-sized foyer that Declan shares with one other apartment. The space is currently crowded with piles of boxes filled with my belongings and a few smaller pieces of furniture that I didn’t have the movers put in storage.

Declan steps through the open door of his apartment with unusually disheveled hair, wearing nothing but a pair of baggy gray sweatpants strung low around his hips. My eyes rake over him, and I gulp so hard at the sight that I hope it isn’t audible. Pushing forty, he still has pronounced pecs and well-chiseled abs. I try to stop myself, but my eyes continue to roam over them to the lines of his Adonis belt, straight to theverydefined outline at the front of his sweats.

“Are you going to stand there, or are you going to grab a box and let me show around the place?” Declan’s gruff voice immediately draws my attention when it has a hint of playfulness to it. I lift my gaze to find his blue eyes staring at me with feigned disapproval and a coy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Fucking hell…

First day, and he’s caught me ogling him. And worse, I think he likes it.

This was a really fucking bad idea.

CHAPTER FIVE

DECLAN

My afternoon was spent forcing Quinn to let me help her stubborn arse unpack her things—or at least move the hundred-pound boxes to her room. Her inability to let anyone help her—independence, as she calls it—has always infuriated me. One day of it, I couldn’t wait to leave the apartment. This is going to be one hell of an aggravating arrangement.

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve fought it.

But fuck if I can figure out why I didn’t.

Already needing to get some air, I waited until Fiona was asleep before heading to the club under the ruse of giving Quinn time to get settled on her own.This, too, was a mistake. Since arriving, I’ve already had two women throw themselves at me so violently I’m surprised they didn’t break their own necks. It’s like they all know my situation and want to be the reason I step back into the lifestyle.

Who knew “fucking the widower” was a kink?

“Whiskey neat?” Jorge asks from behind the bar, and I nod while surveying the room for any of my brothers. I don’t find any of them, but it’s late. I’d be surprised if they haven’t already ventured down the hall to a private room. Jorge returns a moment later with my glass and slides it across the bar. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight. Isn’t Quinn moving in today?”

“She’s my new nanny, Jorge, not my girlfriend.” I take a gulp from the glass, the amber liquid burning as it runs down my throat.

“I’m sorry. I just figured with your history?—”

“We don’t have history,” I bark. The sudden look of confusion spreading across his face quickly tells me he was referring to our childhood friendship and not the secret the two of us have been harboring for the past fifteen years.

The phone on my nightstand ringing wakes me, and I roll over to answer it. As I reach for it, I note the time—2:47 a.m.

“What’d you do this time, Finn?” I groggily huff as I pull the phone to my ear.

“Dec?” a soft, pained Irish accent cracks when I answer the phone.

“Quinn?”

“I’m sorry, but can you come get me?” she chokes through a sob. I huff in annoyance, the lot of them always calling when they need me to get them out of trouble. As I sit up in bed, she whispers through the phone, “He wouldn’t take no… He tried to…”

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