“And I love you,” she breathes, as her voice hitches on a moan. “Oh God, babe, I love you so much.”
I thrust in and out, relishing this moment, even as my body protests. I sustained injuries, but I’m healing, and I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I needed this. We both did.
We work a rhythm of perfection, both chasing our surrender, and when it finally crashes over us, I put my forehead to hers, our fingers woven together as she arches her back and climaxes at the same moment my own release shudders through me.
Utter perfection.
I roll over on my side and drag her back to my chest. I kiss her fiercely, branding her, so she knows exactly who she belongs to.
“That was amazing,” I say softly, stroking my fingers along her hair. “Fuckin’ amazing.”
“It was,” she says with a sigh. “Didn’t think we’d get back to that so soon. When I talked with Megan earlier today, she said that sometimes recovery is—” She suddenly sits up. “Oh, God. Oh my God.”
I blink at her in surprise.
“You alright?”
She throws off the blanket and gets to her feet, utterly naked as she crosses the room to her phone.
“Yes, yes, I think so…” Her voice trails off. “I think I know the next piece to the puzzle, Tate. I think something just clicked into place.”
I watch her, mesmerized by the way her mind works, the way she unravels bits and pieces to reveal the whole.
She’s on the phone again. “And what do we know about the Interpol involvement?” Her brows furrow together like she’s a detective or something, and while I think she’s adorable, I can’t help but admire her tenacity.
“Right,” she says. “Right. Okay, then. I know who I have to call, thanks.”
She hangs up the phone and gives me a triumphant look. “Tate Cowen, I fucked your Clan over, but I’m about to make everything alright again.”
“How will you do that, love?”
“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, reaching for a pair of pants. “But first, get some bloody clothes on.”
I shake my head as I tug on trousers and nick a T-shirt from my luggage. “Where are we going?”
She worries her lip and thinks it over. “The Welsh burnt down the warehouse, right?”
“Aye.”
“And they had you go to my publisher.”
“Right.”
“They used the books as a setup. A distraction. They wanted you all to think that they were getting information from them to feed to others. They used Islan as a conduit.”
“Okay.” So far, I follow.
“And they burnt the warehouse down. No one would return to the warehouse, right? Not if it was burnt down. Not if none of the books were published anymore. Why would they?”
I nod, still following.
“But that doesn’t mean they didn’t leave traces of evidence behind.”
Now, I don’t follow, but I trust her. So, a few minutes later, I’ve got a borrowed car and we’re driving to the warehouse. It’s taped off when we get there, but she manages to sweet-talk her way around a young guard who doesn’t seem too dedicated to keeping her away. She jerks her chin over at me, making scary faces with wide eyes. He looks like he’s going to piss his trousers, nods, and he lets me in.
“What did you tell him?” I mutter.
“That you were a high-ranking official within the McCarthy Clan, and that you’d just as soon cut him up into little pieces and toss him in the Irish Sea as you would look at him.”
I shrug. “Swimming with the fishes again?”
“Exactly.”
“I know you’ve been recovering from what happened,” she says. “So I haven’t told you much. And I didn’t want to really plant false hope, or worse, make accusations that could hurt anyone.” She winces. “Especially after all that I’ve done to all of you.”
I nod. “Go on.”
“Sooo,” she begins, as we walk over the charred remains of the entryway door, “I had to really, really dig deep. I’ve spent so much time thinking this over, talking with my contacts, researching online. And I have a few suspicions now, but I still don’t want to plant false hope.”
She winces.
False hope?
“Turns out… well, quite a few things. But I’ll show you first,” she says, leading the way.
When we enter the large room, I can’t imagine what she’s looking for. There’s nothing but piles of boxes of destroyed books, some burnt beyond recognition and some half burned but soaked in flame retardant and water. She takes one large box that’s still half intact and tosses it onto a table.
Before I know what she’s doing, she’s up on the table and prying at the water sprinklers embedded in the ceiling.
Wait a minute. Water sprinklers?
“See?” she says. “They didn’t activate, did they?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“The only water in here was after the fire brigade showed up, right?”
“Aye.”
“And you’d have thought that was because the Welsh were planning to set the fire. I’d have thought the same,” she says. “In fact, at first, I did. But after I put a few more things together, I came up with another hypothesis.” She sticks her tongue out, still digging through the charred remains of the ceiling. A moment later, her face lights up and her eyes go wide. “Ta-da!”