14. Talia

Chapter 14

Talia

F riday evening, I approach the sleek black limo parked outside my house. Sven walks beside me, Gabe a few steps ahead. Kieran is waiting in the car with Dylan. Not that I expected or wanted him to appear at my door like a suitor, but I now know why he’s tucked behind bullet-resistant glass.

I know why he has full-time security and lives behind perimeter alarms. Why, with the exception of the LA Phil and the occasional charity event, it’s rare for him to be seen outside Lumitech’s highly secure headquarters. I know the reason for Sven’s hyper-vigilance. Why he, Gabe, and Dylan carry guns and wear Kevlar vests under their lightweight jackets.

Since Lumitech announced their intent to research neural nanorobotics five years ago, Kieran has received countless death threats. Multiples per day, every day. The company’ s security division handles them, tracking down sources when they can and passing their findings to the LAPD. It’s a never-ending game of whack-a-mole with minimal results.

At the initial, shocking windfall of threats, Kieran struggled with paranoia, fearing for his and Liz’s safety. He updated their home security system and had wanted to hire a driver for her. She refused, stating she’d grown up in the public eye and already lived with restricted freedoms. Eventually, she cooled his worry, half-convincing him that the threats weren’t serious, simply a price for him being an industry leader. He let it go after she promised to carry mace and agreed that if a serious concern arose, she’d accept increased protection.

Then she died, suddenly and shockingly, while driving his car to the grocery store.

He didn’t say it aloud, but I could see it in his eyes—he doesn’t think her death was random violence. He also believes it’s his fault for not insisting on an armed driver.

At the urging of his father and brother, shortly after Liz’s death, Kieran hired a close protection officer to accompany him everywhere outside his house. Good thing, too, because not six months later, there was a very real attempt on his life that put Sven in the hospital with a stab wound. A year and a half ago, Sven took a bullet to the shoulder when someone shot at Kieran as he stepped out of the elevator in Lumitech’s parking garage.

Both would-be assassins were apprehended and are currently in prison. Open and shut cases. But despite confessions stating they were working alone and hated Kieran’s guts for wanting to tamper with human brains, something didn’t sit right with Sven. The men’s stories were too similar. Too scripted. They fit the profile of muscle for hire, both of them with long criminal histories. It was a stretch to believe either of them even knew what neural nanorobotics was. Still, without proof or leads connecting them, there was nothing to do but move on.

Gabe and Dylan were hired, and the team moved into Kieran’s guest house to provide round-the-clock security.

Life went on. Kieran kept working toward his dream of curing his mother’s Alzheimer’s. All was quiet until two and a half months ago, when he received a call in the middle of the night from an unknown number. Disguised by distortion, a voice told him that this was his final warning. If he continued working on neural nanorobotics, others would pay the price for his hubris. The caller hung up, and a text followed with an attached image: Alistair and Gail out to dinner, both of them oblivious to the photographer.

The police were called, a detective assigned. But since the threat was made from a burner phone, it was untraceable. The detective dismissed a possible connection between Liz’s death, the assassination attempts, and the phone call. Without outright saying it, he told Kieran he was overreacting. Sven dragged him out of the precinct before he did something to get himself thrown in jail.

The following morning, he hired a high-profile private investigation firm. They accepted the case immediately and promised results, but it was too little too late. Kieran couldn’t sleep, was suffering renewed bouts of paranoia, and could barely function at work.

Already dangling at the end of his rope, he fell into the self-destructive spiral that landed him in my office.

I pause on the sidewalk and ask Sven, “Do Alistair and Gail have a security team?”

His lack of surprise tells me Kieran shared what we discussed on Wednesday. “Not twenty-four seven like Kier, but yes. They have top-of-the-line home security with remote monitoring and armed escorts for social engagements—though they’ve limited those since the call.”

I nod distractedly, thinking of Gail and how much all this must be affecting her. Does she live in fear? Maybe I should recommend a therapist if she doesn’t have one already.

“Do you have concerns for your safety tonight?” asks Sven.

I meet his eyes, dark and steady. “No,” I answer. It feels honest but also not quite the truth. I’m more rattled than anything else. The last two nights, I checked every window and door in my house twice to make sure they were locked before bed.

“Dr. Stirling?” Gabe questions. “Your chariot awaits.” He stands at the open back door of the limo with his usual dimpled grin. I’m sure it’s meant to be reassuring, but it only reminds me that he’s trained to put himself between Kieran and bullets .

“Thank you,” I murmur, lifting the hem of my dress and maneuvering onto the leather seat.

The door closes and the interior lights dim. I can barely look at Kieran; he’s a black hole in a tux, alluring and lethal, sucking out my sanity. My pulse flutters alarmingly fast, my body struggling to remember this isn’t a date.

This is war.

“Nice to see you again, Doctor,” says Dylan, seated opposite us behind the front partition.

I seize the distraction. “Likewise. I’m assuming Sven or Gabe know how to drive this thing?”

White teeth flash in his darkly handsome face. “Gabe took a course not long ago. I guess we’ll find out if he learned anything.”

“Ringing endorsement.”

Dylan chuckles.

The limo pulls sedately away from the curb. I buckle my seat belt, then take my phone out of my clutch to make sure it’s on silent before tucking it back inside. When I realize I’m fidgeting, I stop and sit still. So still I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“No hello for me?” purrs the man beside me.

I make myself look at him—a wolf in the guise of an elegant man.

“Hello, Kieran.”

His gaze flickers down my body. “You look exquisite, Talia.”

Even though I agreed to him using my first name tonight—neither of us wants to explain why he calls me Stirling—I still physically react to the shock of it. Or maybe it’s the honesty in his voice. Either way, my body temperature rises.

“Thank you.” I sound like I’m chewing glass.

He grins. So smug in his victory. I look away, staring at the passing scenery outside. Still, as uncomfortable as I am, I can’t regret agreeing to this. From the moment I conceded defeat on Wednesday, he was extremely candid. Despite the heavy topic, the more we talked, the more relaxed he became. By the end of the session—which went almost two hours—he was lying on his back with the pillow under his head. Therapeutic catharsis at its best.

I have a much clearer picture now of what he’s been dealing with for the last five years and how it all came to a head. While I’m glad about that, it also revealed an unforeseen obstacle. One no amount of therapy can circumvent.

As long as the threat to his life and loved ones exists, he’ll be caught between the drive to continue his research and a very real fear of the consequences. To deal with the constant guilt and helplessness playing tug-of-war inside him, he seeks escape through substance abuse and meaningless physical pleasure.

I knew I had my work cut out for me, but… damn. My only hope at this point is that the private investigation firm figures out whoever made that horrifying phone call and whether they’re connected to the assassination attempts.

“You seem tense tonight,” Kieran remarks. “I’m off alcohol at the moment, but there’s champagne in the bar. Can I offer you a glass?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be drinking tonight.”

“Do you ever?”

Kieran’s expression reminds me of the first time he walked into my office. Distant. A little haughty. Now I know it means he doesn’t want to show me what he’s feeling.

“Yes, I drink occasionally.”

“But never to excess,” he surmises.

More of my already fragile nerves snap. I return my gaze to the window. “Not since a few unfortunate evenings in college, no.”

His sigh is so heavy I feel it against my bare shoulder. “Can you at least try to enjoy yourself tonight? Melt the outer layers of that ice-queen mask you’ve got on? It’s for a good cause.”

I welcome a surge of annoyance. “If you wanted a yes-girl to giggle and hang on your arm, you should have used Tinder for billionaires.”

Dylan coughs over the word, “Burn.”

“Really, man?” Kieran huffs, then mutters, “Impossible to find good help these days.”

Dylan chortles.

“Go ahead, laugh it up.”

“Oh, I will,” replies Dylan smoothly.

They continue lobbing insults until both are laughing. I listen with half an ear, my mind on the unique relationship between Kieran and his security team. Their camaraderie is more like that of friends or brothers than boss and employees.

I remember Gabe’s easy smile and the comment at the jacuzzi: “Be nice, boss.” How Dylan—who I’ve interacted with least and thus far has seemed even more stoic than Sven—laughed at Kieran’s expense. And I remember Sven saying, “I’d take a bullet for Kier,” so casually, like it was a foregone conclusion. And I suppose it was. He’s already done it once.

They would die for Kieran, and not out of obligation because he pays their salaries. At least not wholly. They love him. Protect him like they would a brother-in-arms.

As the reality of that sinks in, I finally come to terms with what I’ve avoided accepting for two days. Someone has tried to kill Kieran. Twice. The last time, if Sven hadn’t jumped in front of him at the perfect moment and taken the bullet meant for his heart, he’d be dead.

Dead.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Kieran’s concerned voice startles me. I turn to find him halfway across the seat, one hand hovering in the space between us like he was about to touch me.

Shit. I must have really checked out.

“Sorry,” I say weakly.

He scans my face, his hand falling to his knee where it clenches into a fist. “This is one of the reasons I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t want you to be afraid for your safety when you’re with me.”

I’m not afraid for me .

I’m afraid for him.

Swallowing back the truth, I frown. “There’s more than one reason?”

“There you are,” he murmurs, then smiles. “The other reason is it means I’ve lost at least eighty percent of my mystique. I’m no longer a charismatic, handsome stranger with secrets.”

My laugh is involuntary. “Wow.”

He sits back with a self-satisfied smile, looking like a contented—and very dangerous—predator. His gaze flickers between my eyes and my mouth. No, not my mouth. My teeth.

I suddenly can’t take it anymore.

“What is your obsession with my teeth about? It’s weird, and that’s coming from a kink expert.”

Dylan has a coughing fit. Kieran ignores it.

“Not your teeth,” he answers readily. “Just the crooked eyetooth. It’s so fucking charming I can’t stand it.”

My face warms. “Again—wow.”

He laughs. “Not that I’m complaining, but why no braces when you were young? I feel like parents these days slap those things on kids whether they need them or not. It’s like a rite of passage.”

“I had them,” I admit. “Retainers, too. My wisdom teeth didn’t come in until my mid-twenties. The dentist thought I had enough room. He was wrong.” I run my tongue over my eyetooth. “It’s never bothered me enough to get it fixed. Until recently, that is. Thanks to you, I have a complex in the making.”

Kieran doesn’t laugh. “Please don’t ever straighten that tooth.”

My mind blanks at his fervent tone. Warmth, dense and soft, floats through my chest.

Dylan clears his throat as the limo rolls to a stop behind two others outside the Beverly Wilshire. Ahead of us, couples in evening wear stream inside over an iconic red runner, though thankfully, the paparazzi presence is minimal.

“Dr. Stirling,” Dylan says, his game face firmly on. “If you’ll scoot back a little, I’ll exit now.”

I unbuckle my seat belt, then gather my hem and shift a few careful inches toward Kieran. Dylan pauses, half bent over as he approaches my door, and I realize he doesn’t have nearly enough space to get by.

“I don’t bite unless asked,” whispers Kieran.

Gritting my teeth against the reaction in my traitorous body, I shift back again. But this time my gown’s slippery material works against me and I slide right into Kieran’s chest. Large hands clamp on my waist. He makes a soft, guttural sound that vibrates between my legs. My breath stalls as sensation overloads me—his hard thigh against my ass, the strength and promise in his hands, the furnace-like heat he gives off. Even the brush of his jacket against my bare skin feels erotic.

Dylan bolts from the limo. The door closes.

“No touching,” I force out .

But I can’t move, and he doesn’t release my waist or even snark about the fact I touched him first. He looms behind me, huge and dark and virile. His fingers twitch, digging into the soft bodice of my gown as he tugs me harder against his thigh. I suck in a harsh breath that wants to release as a moan.

The limo rolls forward slowly.

“Talia,” he whispers, hot breath on the back of my neck. “Tell me you feel this.”

“I can’t.” The voice that comes out of me is tortured, clogged with desire.

“Why?” he lashes back. “I’ll get another fucking therapist. Just say the word.”

“That won’t change anything.”

His frustration comes out in a growl. “Are you seeing someone? Is that it?”

I grasp the excuse with both hands. “Yes.”

His hands drop immediately. I scramble across the seat, almost hugging the door as we pull to a stop at the red carpet. My thighs are slick, my breaths fast and shallow.

“At least tell me it’s not Toasty.”

It takes me a second to place the ridiculous nickname. “No. Not Alan.”

The limo stops. The back door opens. Dylan offers me his hand, and I lunge for it like I would a lifeline.