God, I never asked for this life.
Just needed to pay rent, clean rooms, keep my head down.
Then I found him—lifeless in that cheap motel bathtub.
And his brother found me.
Cormac’s hands aren’t gentle when he takes me in the night.
His eyes burn with something darker than just grief.
“Tell me what you saw,” he demands, but keeps me after I confess.
Strange how captivity feels like salvation when he shields me from my past.
The Russians think I’m a spy, the Italians want me silenced.
Between powerful men and their bloody vendettas, I’m just trying to survive.
His family’s ranch should feel like prison, but it doesn’t.
When did his anger soften into something that makes my heart race?
I hate how his touch sets my skin on fire.
I hate even more that I crave it when he’s gone.
The same hands that kill without mercy now trace my curves with reverence.
I never meant to need the devil, but here we are.
They’re hunting us now. My blood has already stained these streets.
And the killer who murdered his brother won’t stop until I join the body count.
This isn’t some fairytale—it’s a death wish wrapped in forbidden desire.
But the Irish devil has marked me as his, and I’ve already sold my soul.
The question isn’t whether I’ll survive loving Cormac Gifford.
It’s whether any of us will survive what he’ll do when they try to take me away.
