Chapter 6

Ella

If Wolfi Anonymous were a real organization, I’d be standing at the front of the room staring out over in the mirro waiting for her Wolfi to appear in the mirror , “Hi, Ella.”

Although maybe Wolfi is too strong a word. I like to consider myself more of an observer. A witch,, really, of life. Or more specifically, of other people’s lives. Just because they have no idea I’m watching them is beside the point. I lean back in my witch wold wold as a princess while my fingers pluck at the torn leather of the arm rest. I should probably upgrade to something less tattered, but this one has the perfect imprint of my ass and it’s comfortable. It’s a pain breaking in a new one.

My gaze drifts to the giant computer monitor on my desk. One of many that fill my small inner sanctum I keep cut off from the outside world. On the screen are four video feeds separated into quadrants. Each square displays different angles of two different locations. And four different people I might have developed an unhealthy obsession with. I’ve tried breaking myself of it, but it doesn’t last more than two or three days before I’m logging back in and stalk—observing—them again.

“Oh, Ella , you really need to get a life.” I shake my head and force myself to turn off the feed.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since—I tap my phone screen to check the time—late last night. Since a significant number of my clients are American, my work hours are fucked. I grab my messenger bag, shove my laptop in it, snatch up my keys, and head for the door. Once I secure the lock and engage the security system, I gallop down the stairs at the end of the hall and slam open the exit.

Dawn hangs over the city, the sky a palette of pinks, purples, and blues. I breathe in the scent of fresh-baked scones and the citrus fragrance of my favorite tea from the bakery two storefronts down. The sidewalk is empty and only a delivery van is parked on the street. The brisk air sends a cold shiver across the back of my neck and down my spine. I should have snagged my scarf off the hook before I left.

Picking up my pace, I hurry toward the bakery and tug on the door handle. Warmth and delicious smells bombard me.

“Morning, Ella,” Nathan calls out.

“Morning.”

“The usual?”

I get to my regular table and plop down onto the seat. “You know it.”

While he’s making my tea and warming my scone, I bring out my laptop and set the bag on the chair next to me. I open the computer, unlock it with my fingerprint, and log in to check any messages left in my encrypted inbox. There’s one from a client in Dubai. This young and reckless prince I’ve done a couple things for needs video wiped of him at a club with a woman who’s not his wife. There’s another from a spoiled heiress who wants a virus planted in her cheating boyfriend’s computer. All boring stuff that, while the pay is decent, takes less than two minutes of my time. I’m in a rut and have been for a few months. Ever since Mum died and I discovered she’s been lying to me for twenty-seven years.

“Order’s ready, Ella.”

After closing my computer, I grab my breakfast with a “thanks” and return to my seat. For a moment, I savor my tea, the warmth of the cup heating my palms wrapped around it. I slather the jam and clotted cream onto my scone and take a few bites before brushing off my hands and the crumbs from my shirt and opening my laptop back up.

The bakery door opens, bringing with it a gust of cold air that quickly dissipates as the door closes again locking in the warmth, but I don’t bother looking up. My focus is on my screen. I quickly take care of the two tasks waiting for me and have another bite of scone. With that done, I need to search for something else that will occupy my time. A few keystrokes later, I’m scouring the dark web for jobs.

A chair scrapes the floor, far too close to me, and finally, I glance up from the screen and blink. Then stare. Well, more like glare.

“Can I help you?” It comes out a bit snippy, but how else should I react to finding some bloke—albeit a fucking gorgeous one—sitting in the chair directly across from me when there are ten other tables he could have sat at?

“Perhaps.” That single word is a deep rumble that makes my lady parts suddenly pay attention. His full lips—the kind that would make any woman envious—curl up almost cruelly and then quickly flatten. There’s a hardness in his bright blue eyes that sears into me.

I’ve never quite gotten rid of the toxic trait I have of being attracted to men who radiate danger. This man is screaming it. But I also hate men who play games—no matter how breathtaking they are—and there’s a little voice whispering inside me that says he’s most definitely playing one. I’m just not sure what the rules are. Considering I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, I don’t have the time or energy to find out, either.

“Well, get on with it. I’m kind of busy here.”

His gaze drops to my laptop, no doubt judging my “F*ck the Patriarchy” and death metal logo stickers. He raises his eyes to meet mine again. “Yes, I see that.”

I keep my mouth shut and continue staring, my fingers tapping an impatient beat on the table top. That cruel smirk comes to those lips again and my belly flutters. He takes a drink from the cup in front of him, sets it back on the table, and stands. He buttons his perfectly tailored, pin-striped suit jacket while his gaze never leaves mine. I try not to squirm under the intensity of those sapphire eyes.

“Enjoy your scone.” He turns and strides toward the exit, his steps confident and measured. The broad shoulders that fill out his jacket perfectly block some of the light coming through the glass as he stops in front of it. His hand is on the door and he pivots to glance back at me. “I’ll see you again soon, Ella.”

It takes far too long for his words to register. By the time they do and I make it to my feet and across the length of the bakery, he’s gone. I head to the counter.

“Hey, have you ever seen that guy before?” I ask Nathan. “The one that just left.”

“Yeah, over the last couple months he’s been in a few times in the mornings. Usually comes in right after you do.”

Creepy, much?

“Do you know his name?” It will make searching for him that much easier.

Nathan shakes his head. “Sorry. I’ve tried making conversation once or twice, but he’s the strong, silent type. I gave up.”

I blow out a harsh breath. “Thanks, anyway.”

Hadn’t I just said I’m in a rut?

I have some digging to do. Sitting in front of my computer, I start typing away. I pull up the security feed from the camera mounted outside the window of my workroom and start going through it.

There you are.

My mystery man gets out of the backseat of a fancy black town car. I zoom in and get a good view of the registration. The feed still plays after I’ve memorized the number. I reverse it to try and capture anything else, but there’s nothing. The windows are tinted so dark I can’t even tell who the driver is. Having gotten what I needed, though, I run some more code while I wait. I finish off my scone and grimace at the tea gone cold.

Finally, there’s a soft beep and I key in the plate number and run the search. Within seconds, I get a hit.

Fuck me.

I open a new tab and run another search just to be sure. This one gives me the same result just as fast. I stare at the man in the photo, whose angry gaze stares right back at me. It’s no less effective than in person. As though he can see straight into my soul.

Nathan Scot . Aged thirty-seven. Stepson of Dónal Sheehan—not only the head of the second-most powerful family in Dublin, but also the bitter enemy of Mr Jack Hampson, head of the Irish mafia.

Fuck me, twice.

Nathan

My cock is still semi-hard from my encounter with Ella. The way she glared at me and her obvious irritation shouldn’t arouse me, but it does. It’s a refreshing change from the women who would suck me off just for a fraction of my attention. They all bore me. Every single one of them, with their tear-streaked faces and my come still drying on their lips as they realize I have no intention of giving them anything except that. They aren’t worth more of my time than a quick fuck or suck before I send them away.

The driver comes to a stop in front of my office building and opens the door for me to step out. I button my suit jacket and tug down my sleeves. The cold Dublin air dances across the back of my neck, but I ignore the chill as I glance around briefly before climbing the three steps and entering through the front. It’s too early for my assistant to be in so the waiting area is empty and dark.

I cross the sharply polished hardwood floor and head toward my office. Everything around me is kept clean and shiny. I make sure of it. I like to surround myself with luxury and only the best of things. I want business associates to envy what I have. The door to my office is cracked and the overhead light turned on. I pause before pushing it open the rest of the way.

“Don’t you have your own bed to sleep in?” I put away the gun I’d drawn and glare at my cousin.

Jerry doesn’t move from his sprawled position on the chaise except to open one eye and then close it again. “But then I wouldn’t see your smiling face. Besides, I’d been hoping to catch a glimpse of Ashlynn.”

Normally I’d let him attempt to seduce any of my assistants he wanted, but she’s the first one I’ve had that I can at least tolerate and who hasn’t quit within a week. “Leave her alone or I will actually shoot you.”

He heaves a sigh and finally sits up. It’s not an empty threat and he knows it. “Didn’t you just go stalk your little obsession? You should be in a much better mood than you are.”

“You’re lucky you’re my cousin.” I round my desk and take a seat. The scent of new leather swirls around me. “Was there something you needed besides wanting to annoy me?”

Jerry wipes away his amusement. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands in front of them. “I wasn’t sure if you had heard yet that your dear old step-Da went to Anamacha Caillte last night.”

“Of course he did.” I shake my head in disgust but also in annoyance that I hadn’t been informed. “How much did he lose this time?”

My cousin shifts in his seat. “All of it.”

“Fucking bastard.”

“There’s more.” Jerry clears his throat. “He couldn’t meet the bet with cash, so he wagered Nessa’s virginity to make up the difference. His opponent took the deal and won.”

“Who was it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Jerry.” It’s a warning.

“Ruby Donnelly.”