Page 28 of Legacy Of Ashes
I shouldn't think about him that way. Conall Devlin is my father's right hand, my protector, practically family. But the way he looks at me now—dark and hungry and barely leashed—makes me wet just remembering it.
A sharp crack shatters my dirty thoughts.
My body goes rigid. That wasn't wind or settling wood. Conall drilled awareness into me from childhood, disguised as games but deadly serious.
"Never trust the obvious path, princess."
"Always know where the weapons hide."
"When they come for you, fight dirty or die clean."
His voice in my memory sends shivers straight to my core. The way he said "princess" like it was both endearment and ownership, like he was already planning all the filthy things he'd do to me when I grew up.
I slip off my heels, bare feet silent on carpet. The security panel shows all green, but Conall taught me technology lies when someone skilled makes it lie.
Another sound. Gravel crunching under boots.
Moving to grandfather's portrait, I find the hidden switch that kills the office cameras. Thirty seconds of darkness before backup engages. Conall made me practice this until my body moved without thought.
The desk drawer slides open. My fingers close around father's loaded Walther, cold steel warming under my touch. The same hands that touch myself at night thinking of Conall's mouth between my thighs now handle death with steady precision.
Glass shatters somewhere in the house.
Professional work. They've cut through security glass in the sunroom rather than smashing windows like amateurs. Three men minimum, based on the pattern of sounds.
My phone buzzes once. Conall's emergency signal.
He knows. He's coming for me.
The thought of him rushing to save me sends liquid fire straight between my legs. My protector. My dark fantasy made flesh.
I position myself behind the oak desk, weapon ready. Let them come. Conall taught me patience along with violence, though he never taught me patience when it comes to wanting him.
Soft footsteps approach. Whispered plans for murder.
The doorknob turns.
Three men enter in black clothing, faces masked, moving with deadly coordination. They expect to find a terrified girl hiding behind daddy's desk.
They find empty air.
I wait until they pass my position, then rise like a nightmare behind them. The brass letter opener slides between the first man's ribs with a wet sound. His grunt alerts the others as he stumbles forward, blood bubbling from his lips.
"Behind you," the second man shouts, spinning toward me.
I'm already moving. The crystal decanter catches him across the temple, sending him reeling. Blood streams down his face, but he stays upright. These aren't street muscle—they're professionals sent to kill a Kavanagh.
The third man has a clear shot. His finger moves toward the trigger.
The office door explodes inward.
Conall enters like sin incarnate, moving with lethal grace that makes my pussy throb despite the danger. Two shots drop the marksman before he can fire. His gray eyes find mine across the chaos, checking for damage with one scorching look that burns straight through to my soul.
"Left," he commands, voice rough with barely leashed violence that makes me want to drop to my knees right here.
I pivot right as the wounded man tries to flank us. We move together like lovers in a deadly dance—Conall covering my weaknesses while I protect his blind spots. Twenty years of his training flows through me, but now I see it differently. See how he shaped me, molded me, prepared me to be his perfect partner in violence and in bed.
Duck. Fire. Roll behind the sofa as bullets splinter wood above our heads.
