Page 87 of The Thief
"Yeah."
"About me."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Terrified."
Something shifts in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Understanding that this thing between us has moved beyond simple attraction into something deeper, more dangerous.
"Freddie—"
"I know. I know it's complicated. I know we haven't known each other long enough for this to make sense. But when I thought Trace might have you, when I couldn't reach Stephen's phone..."
"What?"
"I realized I'd rather die than lose you."
The words hang between us, too honest, too raw. But true. God help me, they're true.
She reaches up and cups my face with her hands. "You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. Because you won't let it happen. Because you're the kind of man who keeps his promises."
"And what promises have I made?"
"To come back to me. To keep me safe. To be worth trusting."
Right. Promises I intend to keep, even if it kills me.
"Ready?" Maverick asks from the doorway.
I step back from Alastríona, letting the professional mask slide back into place. Time to get her home, where Henry can see for himself that she's safe.
"Ready," she says.
The drive back to Henry's house is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Dublin's streets look different now, more dangerous, and full of shadows that could hide threats.
But Alastríona's beside me, close enough to touch, close enough to protect. Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like coming home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
alastríona
The gates to Henry's estate look different when we drive through them this time. Scarred, bullet holes in the wrought iron, and scorch marks on the stone pillars where explosives went off. It’s evidence of a war that happened while I was safely tucked away learning to knit with Jessica.
The house itself shows more damage. Windows boarded up, the front entrance blackened with smoke, and the beautiful landscaping torn up by gunfire. It looks like a battlefield, which I suppose it was.
"Christ," I breathe.
"Could've been worse," Freddie says, parking near the steps. "Could've been a lot worse."
Henry's waiting on the front steps, and the moment I get out of the car, he's moving toward me. For a second I think he's going to shake my hand or nod formally like he did when we first met.
Instead, he pulls me into his arms.
The embrace catches me completely off guard. Henry Gallagher, the man who commands respect from killers and criminals across two continents, is holding me like I'm something precious he thought he'd lost.
