Page 9 of Dublin Beast

Logan shrugs. “You know the saying, mine is not to reason why; mine is but to do or die. And just so we’re clear—I have no intention of dying.”

Aye, I suppose that’s true. Now that we’re in Liverpool, we’re with a Watson envoy in Mason territory. Things will get complicated fast if things go south. The last thing anyone needs is an international incident between three crime families.

“Fine. Have at it. And just so you know, Kieran snores like a fucking buzzsaw.”

Logan chuckles, the sound rough and knowing. “Yeah, well, so do I.”

I stare after him as he disappears into the next room, then glare at Kieran sprawled out on his bed scrolling through his phone.

“What the fuck did I do?” Kieran scowls.

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face, tension taking root behind my eyes. “Nothing. Not a fucking thing.”

With one last glance at the open adjoining door, I take my duffle and head for the shower. If Logan wants to play watchdog, he can knock himself out.

Right now, I need to wash off the day and get some damn sleep. Tomorrow is going to be another long one. I feel it in my fucking bones.

* * *

Harper

The entire night feels like an elaborate game, and I can’t tell if I’m a player or the one being played.

Dinner is a carefully orchestrated performance. The restaurant is dimly lit, sleek, and intimate, the kind of place where the waitstaff knows your drink order before you give it and the silverware costs more than most people’s rent.

The soft clink of crystal and the murmur of polite conversation creates a perfect backdrop for seductive deception.

Jamie Rowan is the perfect host—charming, easygoing, never pressing too hard. His smile reaches his eyes just enough to seem genuine, and he knows exactly when to lean in or pull back.

But I know better.

Every movement is deliberate. Every glance, every casual brush of his hand against the small of my back as he guides me through doorways, is calculated. He’s cultivating intimacy and trust—at least he thinks he is.

I feel the practiced precision in his touch, the way his fingers rest just long enough to establish connection without crossing lines.

I keep my guard up, meeting his smiles with my own, answering his questions with just enough detail to seem genuine without giving him anything real. I’m waiting for him to slip... for the mask to crack enough to reveal what’s truly underneath.

But he doesn’t.

When we leave the restaurant, the streets of Liverpool are alive with the weekend crowd. People move in noisy clusters, laughter spilling into the night air, neon signs casting streaks of color across the pavement. The scent of rain lingers, though the skies have cleared.

An omen of the storm passing?

Maybe, but it doesn’t feel like it.

I expect Jamie to call for a car, but instead, he steers me down a side street, toward a building with no sign and a single bouncer out front. The man is built like a brick wall, his gaze scanning us with practiced indifference before stepping aside to allow us entry.

“Evening, Mr. Jamie.”

“Evening, Charlie.”

Inside, the bass thrums through my bones, the air of the club thick with sweat, alcohol, and something else—something electric.

The space is packed wall to wall with bodies moving in a slow, pulsing rhythm under flashing red and blue lights. The heat is immediate, cloying over my skin like a living thing.

Jamie leads me through the throng effortlessly, his hand now firmly at my waist. I watch the way people react to him. A few nods of acknowledgment. Some outright deference. The crowd parts for him without hesitation, like schools of fish acknowledging the shark in their waters.

And then there is the way people look atme.

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