Page 9 of His Temptation

Siobhan’s breath stalled. Fuck. MI5.

They were already here. The realization hit her like a blow, but she didn’t slow down. If they thought she would roll over and surrender, they were about to be very disappointed. And if they didn’t move, they were about to be injured… severely.

Siobhan’s knuckles went white against the steering wheel as she barreled toward the security gate, heart pounding, mind calculating. The two black SUVs waiting beyond it were exactly what she had feared. MI5 had been watching. Waiting. And now, they were here to drag her back into a life she had burned to the ground.

Not happening. She kept her foot on the gas, eyes locked onto the narrowest gap between the two vehicles. A few more seconds, and she’d either break through or crash trying.

One of the SUV doors swung open. A man stepped out, hand raised, shouting something she couldn’t hear over the engine’s roar.

Siobhan didn’t hesitate. She jerked the wheel at the last second, aiming just off-center. The side of her car clipped the front bumper of one SUV, sending a sickening screech of metal through the night. The impact sent the vehicle rocking back, forcing the agent to jump out of the way as Siobhan’s vehicle fishtailed.

She barely recovered, tires screaming against the pavement as she veered left, dodging the second SUV by inches. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she gunned it down the street,darting through the industrial roads toward the only place she knew she could disappear.

She didn’t look back—didn’t care if Daragh was still in pursuit. All that mattered was getting out before it was too late.

The docks smelled of salt, damp wood, and diesel fuel—a scent she had always associated with escape. Not freedom, but escape. She wondered at the last time she’d ever felt free?

Siobhan drove her car through the maze of shipping containers and abandoned warehouses, taking extra turns and cutting down side streets to avoid being followed. She knew how to disappear.

Finally, she pulled into the shadows of a rusted-out warehouse she had secured for emergencies like this.

She killed the engine and let the silence settle around her, straining her ears for any sign she had been followed.

Nothing.

Still, she didn’t relax. She climbed out, scanning the area before slipping inside through a side entrance. The warehouse was small, bare bones, but it was safe.

Siobhan needed a plan.

She crouched near the metal locker in the back corner, yanking it open. Inside were the essentials—more burner phones, more fake IDs, more cash.

The duffle she had lost back at the storage unit had been a necessary sacrifice. It had held clothes, some weapons, a little extra money. Nothing she couldn’t replace.

What mattered was that she still had the tools she needed to disappear.

Her fingers traced over the edge of a black passport—French. She flipped it open, scanning the alias she had memorized years ago. It would do. She grabbed one of the burner phones, powering it on long enough to pull up the number she needed. A contact in Dublin’s underground—someone who owed her a favor.

She pressed the call button, bringing the phone to her ear. The line rang twice before a gruff voice answered. “Thought you were dead.”

Siobhan didn’t waste time. “I need a ferry ticket. Dublin to Paris. Cash drop.”

A pause. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then, “That’s a big ask for short notice.”

Siobhan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted more money. Fine. “Double the usual rate.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Done.”

The line clicked dead.

She set the phone down, staring at it for a moment. Forty-eight hours. That was how long she had to stay hidden before she could get out. She could do it. She had no choice.

Siobhan counted the seconds. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the dimly lit warehouse, the burner phone and fake passport beside her, her mind racing while her body stayed perfectly still.

The letter she had been writing lay half-folded in her lap, the ink smudged from where she had gripped the paper too hard. She shouldn’t have written it, but some part of her had needed to.

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