Page 7 of His Temptation

Daragh already knew why—men like Sebastian didn’t let go of things they considered theirs.

Daragh finished his drink and set the glass down with deliberate care. Keenan took the hint and stood quickly, looking grateful to escape. Daragh stayed seated, rolling his shoulders as he processed the information. Siobhan Harrington wasn’t just running from MI5… she was running from Wolfe.

Daragh moved through the streets of Dublin like a shadow, silent and unnoticed. He’d spent years learning how to follow a ghost without leaving footprints, and tonight, that skill was proving useful.

Siobhan Harrington wasn’t just any woman on the run—she was a professional escape artist. But even the best left behindbreadcrumbs. He had learned a long time ago that the more careful a person was, the more predictable they became.

And Siobhan was very careful.

His intel had led him to the quiet neighborhood just off Grafton Street, where her flat sat tucked between a small bistro and a boutique. It was the kind of place that blended in, a location picked by someone who knew how to disappear into the city’s landscape.

Daragh didn’t make a move right away. He spent the next two days tracking her movements, watching, studying.

She was good. He had to give her that. She didn’t take the same route home twice, switched grocery stores frequently, and lingered nowhere too long. She had surveillance habits drilled into her, the kind of instinctive awareness that suggested she hadn’t just been hiding from Sebastian and MI5—she had been expecting them.

But she hadn’t left. Not yet, and that told him something far more important than any whisper on the street. Siobhan had a life here.

She should have run the moment she saw that photograph in the paper. Should have left immediately, but instead she’d taken valuable time to take care of business and, he supposed, ready herself to leave this life behind. Leaving would mean giving up everything she had built. The gallery, her work, the safety she had carved out for herself in the cracks of the city.

Daragh understood that kind of reluctance. A woman on the run was a woman who never put down roots. And yet, Siobhan had—which meant part of her wasn’t ready to leave, even knowing the danger closing in on her.

That gave him an opening, and Daragh never wasted an opening. He had spent enough time watching. Now it was time to set his trap.

The gallery was closed for the night, but a sliver of silver light still bled through the windows, casting a glow on the cobblestone street.

Daragh leaned against the wall across from the entrance, hidden just enough in the shadows to go unnoticed by passersby. He had positioned himself carefully—not too close, not too far. Just enough to see the silhouette moving inside.

Siobhan. She was alone, pacing the length of the space, stopping now and then to check something on her phone. Waiting. Deciding. She was planning her exit.

Daragh didn’t need to see her face to know that. He could feel the energy rolling off her in waves, the subtle hesitation that came with someone about to cut and run. Good. He wanted her to make a move, because the second she did, she wouldn’t be alone.

Hours later, Siobhan finally left. She paused for a moment at the door—touching it as if she was saying goodbye.

Daragh stayed in step with her from a distance, his presence nothing more than a ghost in the night. She walked with purpose, but not urgency. Not yet. He followed her through the winding backstreets, watched as she made unnecessary detours, looping in ways meant to shake a tail.

She was smart, but not smarter than him. When she finally reached her destination—a small storage unit on the edge of the industrial district—Daragh knew he had her.

She disappeared inside, and Daragh made his move. The door clicked shut behind her, and he crossed the lot in silence, slipping into the narrow space between units. He didn’t go in right away. He waited. Let her breathe. Let her think she was alone.

Let her feel safe.

Then, just as she was about to leave, he entered and spoke. “You took too long.”

The words were quiet, controlled, but they hit like a gunshot. Siobhan froze.

Daragh watched the way her spine stiffened, the way she turned—slow, deliberate. Her gaze locked onto his, green eyes flashing with something that wasn’t fear. It was fury.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, voice steady, but he could hear the pulse of adrenaline beneath it.

Daragh took a step forward, closing the space between them just enough.

“You already know,” he said simply.

He saw the moment she put it together. The flicker of realization. The way her lips parted just slightly.

“O’Neill.”

Daragh inclined his head. “Daragh.”

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