Page 5 of His Temptation

The bag. Her gun. Out the door.

She crouched down, fingers curling around the wooden floorboard. With practiced ease, she pried it loose, revealing the dark space beneath.

And then she heard it. A noise. Soft. Almost imperceptible, but not inside the apartment. Outside.

Her fingers wrapped around the grip of her Glock as she rose to her feet. The fine hairs along her arms lifted. Whoever was out there wasn’t just passing through. They weren’t a random intruder—they were here for her.

She inched toward the window, staying just out of direct sight. Slowly, carefully, she shifted the curtain, peering into the darkened street below. A black SUV sat idle on the opposite side of the road. Its engine was silent, but she wasn’t fooled. The vehicle didn’t belong there.

She scanned the area, catching movement near the alleyway. A man. Tall, broad, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with brute strength and everything to do with presence. He leaned against the brick wall, half shrouded in shadow, but even from this distance, Siobhan could sense the power in his stance.

Not Sebastian. Not MI5. Someone worse. Someone who belonged to the kind of men who didn’t ask for things. They took them.

The blood flowing through her veins turned to ice. Con O’Neill’s people.

She had been careful. She had stayed away. But one photograph had been enough to bring her past crashing down on her. The man moved, shifting slightly in the dim glow of the streetlights. She couldn’t see his face. But she knew he wasn’t just watching the building… he was hunting her.

Siobhan had no intention of being caught. Her grip on the gun tightened as she backed away from the window. She had minutes, maybe less. The SUV hadn’t moved yet, which meant they were waiting for something—or someone. She turned, heart hammering, forcing herself to think.

She could still get out. She had alternate IDs, an exit plan. But she had hesitated too long, and now she would have to fight to disappear. She slung the duffle over her shoulder, moving swiftly toward the door.

One step. Two. A knock echoed through the apartment—firm, unyielding.

Siobhan’s blood went from ice to wildfire in the space of a heartbeat. They weren’t waiting anymore. They were here. Her fingers curled around the gun as she backed toward the fire escape. She had survived too much to go down like this.

If they thought they could take her easily, they were dead wrong.

CHAPTER 2

DARAGH

Daragh O’Neill stepped into the dimly lit back room of O’Malley’s, a quiet pub on the outskirts of Dublin, where much of the city’s real business happened, hidden from the law. The scent of whiskey and old leather lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of rain carried in by the wind. He barely noticed. His focus was on the two people waiting for him at the worn oak table in the corner.

Con O’Neill leaned back in his chair. The patriarch of the O’Neill crime family exuded power with no need to say a word. The man didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Next to him sat Callum Kavanagh, a man Daragh respected—if only because Callum didn’t play games. He was the kind of bastard who saw a problem and solved it, no questions asked. Which made it interesting that he was here now, looking far more serious than usual.

Daragh slid into the empty seat across from them, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “You rarely call unless you need to get rid of someone,” he said, tipping his chin at Callum. “So, what’s the job?”

Callum’s green eyes were unreadable as he pulled a phone from his pocket and set it on the table. He tapped the screen,revealing a grainy image—an article fromTheDublin Society Gazette. Daragh recognized the gala, the polished veneer of Dublin’s elite. But his attention went straight to the woman in the photo's background.

Emerald-green silk. Auburn hair swept into an elegant twist. A curve of bare shoulder. Even in the blurry reflection of a mirror, he could tell she was trouble.

His interest sharpened, but he kept his voice neutral. “Who is she?”

Callum’s lips pressed together before he answered. “Siobhan Harrington.”

Daragh blinked once, then slowly sat up straighter. That was a name he hadn’t heard in years. Hell, like everyone else, he’d thought she was dead. “I thought she was dead.”

Con O’Neill exhaled through his nose, his expression dark. “Apparently not. Have you ever noticed that happens a lot with MI5, MI6 and Interpol people? And they always seem so surprised when they show back up alive and well.”

Callum and Daragh exchanged glances. Several years ago, Con’s beloved fated mate had returned from the dead as well. Neither said a word to the man most called The Devil of Galway.

Daragh dragged his gaze back to the image. Siobhan Harrington. The diplomat’s daughter. The woman who had vanished without a trace years ago, leaving nothing behind but a few whispers and a trail of burned bridges.

“She’s alive,” Callum said. “And if I saw this, my guess is so did the wrong people.”

Daragh didn’t ask who those people were. He already had a damn good idea.

Sebastian Wolfe. MI5. MI6. Maybe worse.

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