Page 127 of Illicit Temptation

They stare at me and for a second, I worry, they’ve come to bring me straight to Las Vegas.

No, no, no.

I turn around and run, but I don’t get very far. I’m tackled in the tall dry grass.

Kicking and screaming, I twist around throwing punches. “Get the fuck off me!”

“It’s me! Shea, stop!” The guy who tackles me screams and crushes me against his chest.

His smell overpowers me. I know that smell, the feel of those arms. It’s Trace. But how?

“You bastard!” I stare in amazement like I’m seeing a ghost.

Trace grips my shoulders. “Miss me?”

“No. I hate you, remember.” I grab his jacket anyway and bury myself in his chest.

“Argh.” He winces.

“What? How?” I don’t see blood. “How are you even alive? You were shot in the chest!”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he opens his coat. “Bulletproof vest.”

I smack the indentation from Malone’s bullet. “What about me?”

“I knew he wouldn’t kill you.” He strokes my cheek. “He tried to kill me once and wouldn’t hesitate again. I told you, hewantedyou. You were no use to him dead.”

Everything spins, and I remember the damn Quinlans are standing there. We all just jumped out of a helicopter that crashed a few miles back.

“How did you get here, Griffin?” I ask him, Trace still holding me.

“Lachlan called us last night. We got in the air immediately.”

“Balor and I hacked Malone’s phone,” Shane says, all serious. “I found out he got tipped off about your cargo plane arrangement.”

“We found his shite team waiting by the bird,” Connor adds. “We tied them up and put them in a hangar. Stoletheir jackets and masks.”

The Quinlans show loyalty to my brothers right to the very end, risking their lives for me.

Lachlan is in the hospital with his wife.

Darragh and Cormac are dealing with my mother.

The rest of my brothers are probably holding down Kieran, who would have given his left nut to fly here and rescue me himself.

In the end, they sent the Quinlans.

I’m... I’m one of them.

“I’m texting Balor right now that we got you,” Shane says.

“Drones. I saw a drone?” I ask Trace. “Whose was it?”

“Ours. They were in that duffle bag I had,” he says. “Malone didn’t bother to check it or grab it. Denton had a courier drop them off in town when I went for supplies.”

“Who steered the drone?” I ask, letting myself be pulled toward another vehicle.

“I did,” Trace says. “I knew these brats wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

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