Chapter 9

9

CALLUM

C allum’s body tensed, every muscle coiling with instant readiness. He stood in one fluid motion, his senses sharp, his gaze darting toward the far end of the penthouse. The sound had come from the back.

Calm and deliberate, he strode to his desk, sliding open a drawer and retrieving the handgun he kept there. The familiar weight of the Glock settled into his palm as he checked the magazine and clicked it back into place.

His mind was already ahead of him, calculating possibilities. If Lynch’s men had found the penthouse, they’d underestimated him badly.

Callum slipped out of the office, moving silently up the stairs to Isolde’s room. He pocketed the gun before knocking once—sharp and firm.

“Isolde.”

When she didn’t answer immediately, he opened the door, finding her standing by the bed, barefoot and frowning. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

He cut her off, his tone calm but commanding. “We may have trouble. Lock the door behind me when I leave.”

Her face paled, but she straightened her spine. “What kind of trouble?”

“Not now.” He stepped farther into the room, his dark gaze pinning her in place. “Listen carefully. Lock the door. If anyone but me comes for you, you go to the back of the walk-in closet. There’s a hidden compartment in the wall. You’ll find the lever to get inside in the back, right corner. Once inside, close the door. It locks automatically. Get inside and don’t come out until I tell you.”

Her mouth opened in protest, but Callum wasn’t having it. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his hands framing her face as he tilted her chin up sharply.

“You’re not arguing with me right now, Isolde,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You do exactly what I said. Do you understand me?”

Her lips parted, her breath catching at the dominance in his tone. “Callum, I?—”

He didn’t let her finish.

His hands tightened on her face as his mouth came down on hers with bruising force, a punishing kiss that left no room for doubt, no space for argument. It was raw, possessive, and entirely without apology. Her hands rose instinctively to his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, her fingers curled into his shirt, holding on as if the kiss had knocked her world off its axis.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged as he stared into her eyes. “Lock the door, mo chroí, ” he murmured, his voice still dark with promise. “And stay put.”

Her wide eyes searched his face as if she was thinking about arguing with him again. But she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Callum stepped back, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary before he turned and strode toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder just once.

“Remember what I told you.”

Callum waited just outside Isolde’s door, his ear tuned to the faint click of the lock sliding into place. For a moment, he remained still, listening. Only when he was certain she’d obeyed him did he turn on his heel and head downstairs, the polished soles of his shoes silent on the hardwood floors.

The Glock felt solid in his hand, the accustomed weight grounding him as his senses sharpened. Whoever had broken in had made a mistake—a fatal one if they thought they could catch him off-guard.

He moved like a wraith, every step deliberate, his gun aimed and ready as he entered the kitchen. Moonlight spilled in through the windows, catching on the shards of broken glass that littered the floor. He frowned, his gaze narrowing on the servants’ entry door that hung slightly ajar, the frame splintered as if someone had forced their way in.

Callum’s gut tightened. No footprints, no sounds—but there was something.

A scent.

Floral. Soft and familiar.

His grip on the gun tightened as the realization clicked into place. It was faint, but unmistakable—the same scent of jasmine and rose that Deirdre Lynch used to wear.

Deirdre.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as the implications settled like iron in his chest. She’d been here. But why?

The sound of a sharp inhale made him freeze. Callum turned, his gun still raised, to find Isolde standing just inside the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were wide, flitting from the shards of glass to the weapon in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled, his voice low and edged with frustration. “I told you to stay in your room.”

Isolde’s chin lifted, her stubborn defiance flashing in her gaze. “I’m not about to let you face danger alone, Callum. Don’t waste your breath trying to scare me back upstairs.”

He stared at her, torn between anger and reluctant admiration. Even now, standing barefoot in his kitchen, her dark hair tousled from bed and her expression set in steely resolve, she was a force to be reckoned with.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he snapped, lowering his gun slightly but keeping his focus on the doorway. “You have no idea what you’re walking into.”

“Then maybe you should stop keeping me in the dark,” she shot back.

Callum clenched his teeth, his patience fraying. “Fine. But you stay behind me. If you don’t do exactly what I say, I’ll tie you to that damn bed upstairs. Understood?”

She glared at him but nodded, instinctively moving closer. “Understood.”

“Good girl,” he muttered, guiding her behind him as he moved through the kitchen.

Isolde’s hand brushed against his back—hesitant, instinctive—as she kept pace with him. The feeling sent a jolt through him, her trust in him both empowering and terrifying. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not when every sense screamed that there were more players on the board.

The penthouse was too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t feel natural. Callum’s trained ears picked up faint noises—a soft creak, a shift of weight against the floorboards. He counted three… no, four intruders, spread across the outer rooms.

“Stay close,” he ordered quietly, his voice barely audible.

Isolde didn’t argue. He could feel her trust as she kept a hand on the back of his shirt, her breathing quick and shallow but controlled. Callum moved steadily, guiding her toward the office where the panic room was concealed.

“This way,” he murmured.

They slipped inside, and Callum quietly locked the door behind them. The fireplace crackled softly, its glow casting flickering shadows across the leather armchairs and towering shelves of books.

Isolde’s voice broke the silence, soft but resolute. “What’s happening? Who’s here?”

Callum didn’t answer immediately. He walked to his desk, pulling a hidden lever to slide open the bookshelf on the far wall, revealing the secure compartment that would keep her safe. “Get inside. Now.”

“Callum, talk to me,” she pressed, but her voice wavered slightly.

Before he could respond, a voice echoed from the living room beyond the door—a voice that turned his blood to ice.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in, Callum? ”

Deirdre.

Callum went still, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could feel Isolde’s confusion behind him as she whispered, “Who is that?”

He ignored her question, reaching into his jacket to pocket the Glock. “Stay here,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t come out until I say.”

“Callum—”

“ Now, Isolde,” he snapped, turning toward her with a look that silenced her protests. He pointed to the open compartment. “In. Now. If I don’t return in the next half hour, follow the passageway to the right. You’ll find a set of stairs. At the top is a landline. Pick it up, one of our men will answer and will arrange to get you to safety.”

“I’m not leaving you…”

“Yes, you are. If I don’t come back, then everything I’ve done to keep you safe will have been in vain. Promise me you’ll stay alive, and let my people take care of you.”

Reluctantly, she moved toward the hidden space, her gaze lingering on him for one final moment before disappearing inside. Callum slid the bookshelf closed.

He turned, his shoulders tight as he strode to the office door and yanked it open, his expression dark as a thundercloud.

Deirdre Lynch stood at the center of his living room, dressed in black, her red hair swept back like a flame. She looked every bit as dangerous as he remembered, her sharp smile laced with the kind of malice that had once thrilled him—and now repulsed him.

“Callum,” she purred, her voice soft but cutting. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You’re no friend of mine,” he bit out, his tone cold. “What the hell are you doing here, Deirdre?”

Her eyes gleamed, and she tilted her head slightly, as if assessing him. “I’m here to warn you.”

He barked out a humorless laugh. “Warn me? You’ve got some nerve, sweetheart.”

Deirdre’s smile faltered. “This isn’t a game, Callum. Eoin knows about the Fitzwilliam girl. He knows she’s important to you. Bradford’s been feeding him information, and they’re planning something big. You think tonight was just a coincidence?”

Callum’s blood ran cold. “What do you know?”

Deirdre stepped closer, her expression serious now. “They’re coming for her. For the Foundation. Bradford wants to position himself as a law-and-order candidate in the next election. Eoin has convinced him they can dismantle the O’Neill organization by exposing their connection to the Foundation. Bradford is willing to do whatever it takes as long as he gets the credit.

“And Eoin?”

“He hates O’Neill. He hates you. He hates Fitzwilliam and if he can destroy the Foundation, he can take his revenge and have Bradford in his pocket. Eoin likes having councilmen in his pocket.”

His fists curled at his sides. “And why the hell should I trust you?”

Her gaze softened, but there was a flicker of something else—regret, maybe. “Because as much as I hate you, I hate Eoin more.”

Callum didn’t speak for the space of a heartbeat, his mind spinning with the implications of her words. The danger was real—and it was closing in faster than he’d anticipated.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a slight movement by the office door. Isolde stood just inside, her eyes wide, her gaze darting between him and Deirdre.

Callum’s voice was a low growl as he turned back to Deirdre. “Get out.”

“Callum—”

“ Get out. ”

Deirdre hesitated for a beat, then smirked. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She turned and sauntered toward the broken door, vanishing into the night like the ghost she was, her men trailing behind her.

Callum ran a hand over his jaw, his muscles tight. He turned to face Isolde, who was still watching him, her face pale but defiant.

“Who was that?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

“Trouble,” Callum said simply, his look turning steely.

Isolde swallowed, stepping closer to him despite everything. “What did she mean? That they’re coming for me?”

Callum closed the distance between them in two strides, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders, steadying her. “It doesn’t matter what she meant. No one’s going to touch you, mo chroí. Not as long as I draw breath.”

But as he said the words, he couldn’t ignore the truth that hung between them: Deirdre’s warning had changed everything. The storm was coming. And this time, Callum wasn’t sure if he could stop it.