She took the two short steps up to her door. Pushed the key in the lock. Turned it.
Heat swamped her back—the warmth of a body.
The lock clicked open. She grasped the handle, pushed.
Could her breath get any louder?
Two steps and she was inside—and that’s when she knew. She’d imagined being controlled, facing her fate with dignity. She’d thought she could control the screaming urge to run.
She was wrong.
She’d made it no more than halfway across the room before a hard arm wrapped around her waist, slamming into her stomach, threatening to make her illness real instead of an excuse to go home. The body she was forced back against was equally hard. Strong. Hot.
Deadly.
Warm breath heated her neck, just like she’d imagined it would. His breath.
Oh God.
“Hello, Lyse.”
Chapter Four
“C’mere.”
The word came out hard and low, the bark intended to quiet her panic. It didn’t work. Lyse fought his hold, little whimpers of pain and fear escaping her throat. He had little doubt that the tight grip of his arm across her belly hurt; it might make him a bastard, but knowing that satisfied a part of him normally locked down in an op. But then, this was no ordinary op, was it?
Pain he understood; it was the fear he couldn’t make sense of. She’d sent him her calling card; why would she be fearful?
Dragging her back to the front door was no more difficult than lifting a wee one—the woman was slight, breakable, and even with her kicking and squirming, she didn’t hinder his moves. Once the door was secured, he put a second arm around her, below her breasts so she couldn’t bite him, and began a fresh recon of her apartment. Sparse furniture occupied the living room/kitchen. The hall to one side led to a second bedroom, set up as Lyse’s control center. Too small for an occupant, and no hideaways. He glanced up the stairs. Master bedroom and bath up there; he knew. He’d check after securing his prize.
No, not his prize. His redemption.
Back in the kitchen he pulled a chair away from the table and dropped his prisoner onto it. Lyse immediately surged back up. Pressing all his weight onto her, he looked her right in the eye. “Stop. Now. Don’t be making me do this the hard way.”
Her hazel eyes were wild, her breath rapid, shallow. She threw her body to the side, fighting to get away.
“Lyse,” he snapped.
Her breath stopped. Her gaze locked with his.
“Stop fighting me or this will be going very bad, very fast. Got it?”
She stilled in the chair.
“Got it?” he asked again.
Her nod was more of a jerk of her head, but it got the job done. Leaving a firm hand on her chest, he tore open a pocket on the thigh of his fatigues and removed a couple of zip ties. Lyse’s eyes widened.
“What are ya after, silk?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t move. He used his shoulder to pin her in place as he reached around and secured her wrists to the chair. Two more ties took care of her legs, not that they were a threat. Even in the small chair, the balls of her feet barely touched the ground.
He backed up a step.
“Am I needing to worry about your mouth?” He wasn’t thinkin’ so—she’d been quiet up till now despite fighting him—but he was needing to make his point. He’d scoped out her apartment and the one next door before walking into the village and knew the neighbor’s was empty. A picture on the nightstand had told him it belonged to the man he’d seen with her at the pub. Tall, brawny—he would be a threat if he was wanting to be. Neither he nor the other man had moved like they were trained, but Fionn hadn’t survived this long by discounting variables. Was Lyse working with them somehow?
The image of her doing more than working with the neighbor flashed behind his eyes, adding extra mean to his stare.
Lyse was already white as a sheet, but whatever she saw in his face had her shrinking back. “N-no.”
Knowing he needed to question her fast, he made quick work of scouting the apartment, then returned to the kitchen. Lyse sat quietly, seeming more composed than she’d been a few minutes past. That wouldn’t last for long.
“Fionn—”
“What are you doing in North Quigley?” No one knew about this place but Deacon. He’d been after keeping the secret all these years, had killed the part of him that needed his family, all so his mam could be safe. No coincidence would bring this woman here. It was impossible.
“I…” Lyse’s full lips tightened, a white outline forming around them. “I knew it was the one place you wouldn’t look.”
“You knew it was the one place you could finish the job you started on me.”
“What?” She shook her head, the thick, messy bun at the back bobbing. “I wouldn’t—”
“What? Set a bomb? Almost kill your teammates, the people who trusted you?” Every time he thought about it, the rage was almost as fresh as it had been that night, the moment he’d realized what she’d done. “You did. You would. So don’t be trying to make me believe you’re not a threat to my—”
He slammed his mouth shut over the word, his teeth clanging together. Christ, emotion was driving him to be reckless. Don’t give intel you aren’t sure the enemy already has. Let them give it to you.
And Lyse did. “Your mother?” Her head tilted in that way she’d always had, as if she was seeking to understand. He refused to fall for it again. “I’m no threat to Siobhan.”
She pronounced it the Irish way, Shavonne. She’d learned a bit while she was here. His body tensed just hearing the name on her lips.
He stalked closer, enjoying the way she struggled to retreat. “You are a traitor. You set a bomb that could’ve killed dozens of people. I’m not after believing anything you say; I sure as feck won’t trust ya
