Chapter 10 - Reign Over the Ashes
Two weeks later, the Irish sun did something rare: it broke through the Atlantic gray, casting long spears of brilliant gold across the lush emerald hills of the estate.
In the center of the main gallops, Midnight Reel was running.
Rowan stood at the white rail, her left arm out of the sling, though a dark leather brace still supported her shoulder beneath her tweed riding jacket.
The stallion was poetry in motion. His stride was long, fluid, completely devoid of the hitch that had plagued him for four months. He moved like a creature born from shadow and thunder, kicking up clods of dark turf as Cormac let him run full tilt toward the home turn.
"Two minutes, eleven seconds," Declan’s voice sounded behind her.
Rowan smiled faintly, not turning around. "He has two more seconds in him once the ground dries out."
Declan stepped up to the rail beside her. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, looking more like the CEO of a multinational shipping firm than a ruthless syndicate boss—which, in truth, he was both.
He laid a folded newspaper on the rail between them.
The headline on the front page of the *Irish Times* was stark:
**EASTERN EUROPEAN LOGISTICS TYCOON FOUND DEAD IN MARBELLA VILLA: ACCIDENTAL DROWNING SUSPECTED**
Rowan’s eyes widened. She stared at the photograph of Viktor Vance beneath the text.
"Accidental?" she whispered.
"He drank too much," Declan said smoothly, looking out over the horses. "Slipped into his infinity pool. Struck his head on the marble coping. A tragic misfortune for the Vance family."
Rowan turned to him, her heart beating a wild, dangerous rhythm against her ribs. "You did this?"
"I told you," Declan said, turning his head to meet her gaze, his gray eyes burning with an intense, unyielding possessiveness that made her breath catch. "Nobody brings a war to my door and lives to tell the story. And nobody touches what belongs to Ashgrove."
Rowan swallowed hard. "I don't belong to Ashgrove, Declan. I was hired on a three-month contract."
Declan took a half-step closer. His hand reached out, catching her wrist—not with the punishing grip of the night in the barn, but with a firm, inescapable warmth. He pulled her gently toward him, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"Your contract is terminated," he murmured, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her inner wrist, right over her leaping pulse.
"Is that so?" she asked, her voice breathless, her chin tilting up defiantly. "Am I fired?"
"You're appointed," Declan said, his gaze dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Head of Equine Operations for the Kavanagh estate. Permanent residency. Full authority."
Rowan searched his face, seeing the ruthless power, the dark shadows of his past, and beneath it all, the solitary man who had watched her bleed and chosen to bleed with her.
"And what if I say no?" she challenged softly, though her pulse betrayed her completely. "What if I decide to pack my bag and leave for America?"
Declan leaned down, his mouth brushing the curve of her ear, his voice a low, thrilling promise that settled into the very core of her soul.
"Try to run, Rowan," he whispered. "See how far you get before I hunt you down and bring you back."
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Out on the track, Midnight Reel crossed the finish post with a wild, triumphant whinny that echoed across the valley.
Rowan didn't pull away. She stepped into his touch, her hand resting flat against Declan's chest, right over his beating heart, knowing that the running was finally over—and that the reign had just begun.
