23. Talia

Chapter 23

Talia

J ust after midnight, I punch in a code next to a black door with gold stenciling reading Private. This hallway at Crossroads is uncarpeted and utilitarian, its only features the door before me and a rolling metal one for deliveries, currently closed and dead-bolted.

The low, sensual beat of the club’s music snuffs out as I let myself inside and close the door. Under the soft glow of a security light mounted over my head, I follow London’s instructions, securing the locks and setting the alarm system. Then I head up a narrow flight of stairs, flipping a wall switch at the top to bring on recessed lights in the living area.

I’m relieved to see the one-bedroom loft hasn’t changed much in the years since I’ve been in it. It looks like a cross between an expensive hotel and a residential brothel, the latter owed to the wall with a gleaming St. Andrews Cross and an impressive display of whips, ropes, and floggers. In reality, the loft is something in between, primarily a safe haven where close friends of Dominic and London can retreat, relax, and play.

I drop my purse and small overnight bag on the couch and head for the kitchen, finding the cabinet with glasses. Behind a stack of cloth napkins in a different cabinet, I find the bottle Dominic told me would be there: his favorite brand of very expensive, eighteen-year-old Scotch.

“Thank you, Dominic,” I whisper as I pour a few fingers into the bottom of my glass.

Retreating to the sofa, I sit listlessly next to my purse. A few swallows later, I finally begin to relax.

Tonight’s lecture was fantastic, the crowd even more responsive than last week’s. But it took serious mental effort to shut away the memory of my conversation with Sven. The man in the car outside my house. The possibility that someone who wishes me harm knows where I live.

My head falls back to the cushion. I close my eyes. Silence buzzes in my ears, a sensation I normally love but right now feels oppressive.

Or maybe… maybe I’ve never loved being alone. Maybe it’s a lie I told myself so many times it became true. A defense against feeling like I’d never have a place in the world.

Stop. Not tonight.

Giving myself a shake, I sit up and finish the Scotch in two long swallows. I’ll take a shower. Get some sleep. Things will be different in the morning—or maybe my perspective will be different. Either way, nothing good will come from me dwelling on all the shit I can’t change.

Recenter. Reassess.

I push to my feet and grab my bags, then take them into the bedroom and toss them onto the bed. Halfway to the bathroom, I hear the distinctive bzz, bzz of my phone ringing. Figuring it’s Nate or Charlie checking to see if I made it into the loft okay, I fish the device from my purse.

Kieran Hayes.

My heart throws itself against my ribs, flooding me with adrenaline.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I sit on the bed, then jump back up. Walk a few paces. Sit again. My finger hovers over the screen.

“He’s a man. Just a man . ”

But my subconscious knows he’s not just anything, and I’m freaking the fuck out.

The phone stops buzzing. My head hangs. I’m relieved. I’m bereft.

It starts buzzing again.

This time I don’t let myself think. “Hello?”

“Hi, Talia.”

It’s a good thing I’m sitting down because my legs turn floaty.

“Kieran,” I manage.

“How was your speaking engagement?”

I can hear the smile in his voice. He sounds relaxed. Perfectly calm—the opposite of me. The contrast sharpens my voice. “Fine, thank you.”

He hums, and I feel the sound between my legs. “Is this a good time?”

“A good time for what? Your apology for hiring security for me without telling me?”

He chuckles. There’s a rustling sound on his side. Sheets, I realize. Glancing at the nightstand clock, I do a quick calculation: it’s early morning in Ireland. He’s in bed.

Fire races under my skin at the thought.

“I’m not sorry,” he murmurs. “I only wish I were there so I could see to your safety myself.”

My lungs freeze. “What does that mean?”

Another humored exhale. “It means whatever you want it to mean.” He pauses. “Did you miss me this week? Think about me?”

Yes. Constantly.

“Is there a point to this phone call? I was about to go to sleep.”

“Now there’s a lovely thought. Yes, there’s a point—I wanted to hear your voice. Give me five minutes. How are you? Tell me about your week.”

“I’m…”

I rub my forehead, wishing I hadn’t indulged in that drink. Those two little words— tell me— are a seventeen-year-old trigger only he can push. My tongue loosens .

“I’m struggling. I lost three more clients and was accosted in the grocery store by a woman who said I was the Devil’s whore. Apparently, she found her husband looking at photos of me online. There’s… uh, more have surfaced. Some old promotional shots Charlie and I did for Crossroad’s opening.”

“I’ve seen them.” He pauses, voice lowering. “You look stunning. Like a goddess of vengeance with that whip in your hand.”

Golden warmth slips through me, melting my thoughts. His voice is better than whiskey, a rough burn on my senses.

Into my stunned silence, he asks, “Do you want me to get them taken down? I have people for that.”

I make a sluggish connection. “You got that article pulled, didn’t you? The one from my former client?”

“Would you be angry if I said yes?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Then yes, though it took longer than I hoped. Viral media is like a fast-spreading rot. Hard to contain. They’re still working?—”

“It’s okay,” I interject. “Really. I appreciate the effort, but I’m sure your tech wizards have more important things to do. There’s no point, anyway, not after the feature in the Times this morning.”

Another thoughtful sound. “Just finished reading it before I called. It was great, Talia. You should feel proud.”

“Thank you,” I whisper .

“Do you miss it?” His voice has a new edge. “Dominating men?”

A fantasy flashes, technicolor in my mind. His muscles straining against rope. I shift on the bed to relieve the ache between my legs, but it doesn’t help.

“Sometimes.” My voice scrapes; I clear my throat. “Not the work side of it. I enjoyed fulfilling the needs of my clients, but it wasn’t personal.”

“You mention that in the article,” he muses. “I think you blew a lot of minds when you said you’ve never engaged sexually with a client. That kink isn’t even strictly about sex.”

“Did I blow your mind?” I ask recklessly.

His swiftly drawn breath makes goose bumps waterfall down my body.

“You did. You do. All day, every day.”

There are five long, tense seconds of silence wherein all we do is breathe. He recovers first.

“What do you miss about it?”

Another mental flash of him hits. This time he’s bound and blindfolded on his knees, his face upturned to me in perfect trust.

“The connection,” I say hoarsely. “Knowing my partner feels safe and trusts that I’ll take care of them physically and emotionally.”

His soft groan cuts off sharply, like he tried to stop it from emerging but couldn’t. I bite the inside of my cheek, my pulse pounding hard and low .

“The blond with the microphone. He was your sub, wasn’t he?”

I blink at the abrupt transition. “Nate, yes. We ended things two years ago.”

“For good? When was the last time?”

There’s something raw in his voice, but I’m too muddled to analyze it beyond how it makes me feel: like if I touched myself right now, I’d explode.

“I saw him last month. After our session at the rage room.”

He laughs, the sound strangled. Pained.

I can’t handle it.

“I went to him because I wanted you. It was the last time.”

The following silence is so thick I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Then he asks with soft wonder, “You wanted me then?”

I’ve always wanted you.

“Yes. From the first time I saw you.”

In a graveyard in the rain.

Relief thickens his slow exhale, then fervent words fill my ears, my body, my soul.

“I didn’t want to leave your bed on Sunday, much less the country, but you needed time and space. If I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have been able to stay away from you. It’s not transference, Talia. I promise you. It’s your eyes, your voice. Your beautiful fucking brain. The fact you can read me like a book when no one— no one —has ever been able to. When we met, I was slipping away. I mean that literally. I was losing time, losing myself. You were the fire that melded the pieces of me back together. It wasn’t the therapy—it was you. ”

I can’t breathe, much less speak.

“You asked me in our first session if I’d ever trusted someone enough to show them the deepest, darkest parts of myself. I said no, and at the time it was the truth. But it’s not true anymore. Do you understand? I trust you . I see you . I…” He sucks in air. “I want to tell you why I came to Ireland. The real reason.”

My head spins. “Your mom?—”

“Isn’t herself anymore,” he says with finality. “She doesn’t know me. She’s safe, as content as the finest care can make her, but she isn’t why I came. My lab is here.”

I blink in confusion. “Lumitech has a headquarters in Ireland?”

“No. This is privately funded. So completely off the books not even the custodians in the building know what’s under their feet. When I got that call and the photo of Alistair and Gail, I thought it meant they knew about the lab in Limerick. The real lab.”

I gasp. “The project here is a diversion.”

“So fucking smart,” he whispers.

“Kieran!”

He chuckles. “Yes. Lumitech’s project has been officially shelved for three months, but it’s never been more than a think tank. My people are here—the brightest minds in the world. They don’t even need me. They never have. I come every six weeks or so under the pretense of visiting family, but I spend most of my time underground with them.”

I thread this information with what he’s told me before and muse, “You never stopped working on it because they never stopped.”

“Correct. I’ve spent the last three months agonizing over whether to shut everything down. To give up. I was close—so close—to pulling the plug. Then I was watching you sleep Sunday morning, and I realized I couldn’t ask you to be brave if I wasn’t willing to take risks myself. So I did it.”

My ears ring. “Did what?”

“Gave the green light. Preclinical testing begins in five weeks. We’ve done it. Too late for my mam, but not too late for others. For everyone.”

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my eyes stinging. “Kieran, I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you, mo ghrá.”

I try to repeat the word but mangle it. He chuckles.

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“You didn’t look it up?”

“It sounds like gibberish. Tell me how to spell it and I will.”

His laughter grows. “Not a chance. But it’s two words, not one.”

“Not helpful,” I grumble.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you someday.”

I huff. “I’ll call Gail and have her ask Alistair.”

“No, you won’t. You love the frustration. Prolonging the tension. Don’t you, mo ghrá? Didn’t you love how I made you writhe for an hour before I let you come on my tongue?”

My breath stutters out of me. “Kieran,” I whisper.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Next time…”

“Mmm, yes?”

“I’m in charge.”

I hang up on his guttural curse.