She Thought She Could Hide the Gunshot Wound From the Mafia Boss—Until He Reached for Her Arm

"They're here for me," Rowan whispered, the realization draining whatever little color remained in her cheeks. "They tracked my car to the ferry in Holyhead. I ditched the vehicle, but..."

"They aren't here for you," Declan corrected coldly, driving the needle through the clean edge of her wound.

Rowan hissed, tears spilling over her lashes, but she didn't look away from him.

"They didn't know you were here," Declan continued, tying a surgeon’s knot with terrifying speed. "Until yesterday, they thought this estate was just a Kavanagh family property they couldn't touch without starting a war in Munster. But now they know. Because you made a mistake."

"I didn't make a mistake," she gasped. "I didn't use a card. I didn't contact anyone."

"You ordered specialized equine anti-inflammatories under your real veterinary license three days ago, delivered to the village post office." Declan tied the second knot. "Bridey intercepted the package yesterday morning. Vance has informants in the Dublin pharmaceutical distribution network. A girl with your name ordering five hundred milliliters of phenylbutazone raises flags."

Rowan dropped her head back against the cushion, laughing weakly, bitterly. "So I brought them to your door. You should have let the stallion kill me."

"I don't waste good investments," Declan said. He cut the thread with a sharp snap of his shears, then picked up a fresh roll of sterile gauze and began wrapping her torso with firm, overlapping passes. "Midnight Reel has forty percent more mobility in his shoulder today than he did when you arrived. You’re worth more to me breathing than dead in a horse stall."

"Is that all this is?" she asked, her voice cracking. "A business transaction?"

Declan finished pinning the bandage. He didn't immediately stand.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, one hand braced on the back of the sofa, the other resting lightly, possessively, against the uninjured curve of her throat. His thumb brushed over her racing pulse point.

"If this were just business, Rowan, I would have put a bullet behind your ear the moment I saw the blood on my hand and dumped you in the river. That’s what my father would have done."

Rowan felt the heat of his fingers on her skin, electric and dangerous. "Why didn't you?"

"Because you didn't cry when the horse hit you," Declan whispered, his eyes dark as midnight water. "And because I like things that refuse to break."

A sharp, two-tone chirp cut through the heavy silence between them.

Declan’s gaze snapped toward the desk.

On the center monitor, the infrared camera covering the south tree line flashed yellow, then red.

Three figures in dark tactical gear were moving through the low brush near the training track, carrying suppressed carbines, heading straight for the manor’s lower courtyard.

Declan stood slowly. The horseman was gone; the quiet breeder was gone.

In his place stood the head of the Kavanagh family—a man who had inherited a criminal empire forged in blood and maintained through absolute terror.

He walked to the bog-oak desk, pulled open a false panel in the bottom drawer, and retrieved an automatic shotgun and two Glock 17 pistols.

He tossed one of the pistols onto Rowan’s lap.

"Can you shoot with your right hand?" he asked, racking the slide of his own weapon with a dry, mechanical *clack*.

Rowan picked up the gun. Her hand was steady.

"I don't miss," she said.

Declan’s mouth curved into the first genuine smile she had ever seen on him—cold, predatory, and breathtakingly beautiful.