Chapter 3 - The Shadows in the Hallway
The master suite on the third floor of Ashgrove smelled of polished mahogany, beeswax, and Declan Kavanagh’s dry cologne.
It was a room Rowan had never seen, fortified with reinforced steel core doors and triple-paned ballistic glass.
She woke up beneath a heavy down duvet, her left arm wrapped in fresh white bandages and strapped in a supportive sling.
The throbbing had dulled to an ache, thanks to the IV drip Paul Byrne had administered before she lost consciousness.
The room was dimly lit by a single amber lamp on the marble fireplace mantel.
Through the parted drapes, she could see the gray light of early dawn creeping over the sprawling pastures of Ashgrove.
Sitting in an armchair by the door, completely motionless, was Declan.
He had changed out of his bloodied formal wear into a charcoal cashmere sweater and dark slacks.
His sleeves were pushed up, his hair slightly disheveled, and an untouched glass of whiskey sat on the table beside him.
On his lap rested a heavy, customized semi-automatic handgun, its slide resting flat against his thigh.
He had been watching her sleep.
“You shouldn't be sitting there,” Rowan said, her voice dry as parchment.
Declan didn't flinch or look surprised that she was awake.
He lifted his head, his gray eyes clear and utterly devoid of fatigue.
“I sleep four hours a night, Rowan,” he said, setting the weapon down on the side table with a dull metallic click.
“And tonight wasn't one of them.”
He stood up, walking across the thick Persian rug to the edge of the massive king bed.
He poured a glass of water from a silver carafe on the nightstand and handed it to her with steady hands.
Rowan took it with her right hand, her fingers brushing his warm skin, sending an uninvited pulse of electricity through her.
She drank thirstily, draining the glass in three long swallows while he watched her with unblinking scrutiny.
“Frank Vance spent the last four hours reviewing every foot of security tape from the past three weeks,” Declan said.
“Did he find anything?”
“Frank found that three distinct blind spots were created in the stable perimeter ten days ago.”
“Someone adjusted the camera angles during the routine lens cleaning.”
“Who cleaned the lenses?” she asked, setting the empty glass down.
“Julian’s private crew,” Declan said, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register.
Julian Kavanagh was Declan’s first cousin, the smooth-talking financier who managed the family’s legal breeding syndicates.
Julian had spent the last two years pushing Declan to sell fifty percent of Midnight Reel to a Dubai consortium.
Declan had refused repeatedly, determined to keep the stallion under direct Kavanagh ownership for the upcoming breeding season.
“Julian was at the gala tonight,” Rowan noted, remembering the man’s impeccable white tuxedo and smirking confidence.
“Julian was shaking hands with the governor when your dress tore open,” Declan said.
“His alibi for the gala is ironclad.”
“What about Tuesday night?”
“Julian claims he was at his penthouse in Manhattan, meeting with corporate accountants until midnight.”
Declan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a silver cufflink bearing an engraved initial 'V'.
Rowan stared at the object, her pulse jumping.
“I found that caught in the drainage grate outside stall fourteen,” Declan said, his eyes drilling into hers.
“Julian wears custom cufflinks from a jeweler on Fifth Avenue.”
“He claims he lost one during his last tour of the stables two weeks ago.”
“Do you believe him?” Rowan asked softly.
Declan leaned down, resting his palms flat on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her in his space.
The proximity was suffocating, intoxicating, and undeniably dangerous.
“I don't believe anyone who smiles as much as Julian does,” Declan murmured.
“In my world, Rowan, family is just the first group of people who know how to hurt you without leaving a trace.”
“Then why keep him around?”
“Because you keep your rivals close enough to see the knife before they thrust it,” he answered coldly.
There was a soft, urgent knock at the heavy bedroom door.
Declan didn't jump; his right hand dropped instantly to the pistol on the side table before he turned his head.
“Enter,” he commanded.
The door swung open, revealing Cormac, Declan’s younger brother and the enforcer who handled the organization’s street business.
Cormac was broader than Declan, with scarred knuckles and a perpetual scowl that frightened even the local police chiefs.
He stopped just inside the threshold, his eyes flicking from Rowan in the bed to Declan’s protective stance.
“We have a problem downstairs, Dec,” Cormac said, keeping his voice strictly professional.
“The senators are calling.”
“Albright is threatening to pull the port licensing permits if you don't explain why he was thrown out into the rain like a stray dog.”
“Tell Albright he can choke on his permits,” Declan replied without hesitation.
“Declan, we need those deep-water docks cleared by Friday,” Cormac insisted, stepping an inch closer.
“If the shipping containers don't move, the Boston shipment sits in international waters burning sixty grand a day.”
“The docks will be cleared when I say they are cleared,” Declan snapped, turning his full fury on his brother.
“Albright will wait.”
“If he complains again, send Frank to his mistress’s apartment in Cambridge with the photographs from last month.”
“He’ll shut his mouth and sign the permits before noon.”
Cormac let out a low breath, shaking his head, then turned his gaze directly toward Rowan.
“Is she the reason the entire gala was shut down?” Cormac asked, his tone laced with undisguised suspicion.
“She’s a trainer, Declan.”
“A girl we hired off an upstate circuit six months ago.”
“You cleared three million dollars worth of political capital out of the house because she caught a stray scratch?”
Before Cormac could finish his sentence, Declan moved with terrifying speed.
He crossed the room in two strides, his hand shooting out and catching Cormac by the throat, slamming him against the oak doorframe.
The sound of bone hitting hardwood reverberated through the quiet bedroom.
Cormac gasped, his hands coming up to grasp Declan’s iron wrist, his boots scraping against the carpet.
“She didn't catch a scratch, Cormac,” Declan hissed, his face an inch from his brother’s ear.
“Someone put a bullet in her arm inside my barn while she was saving Midnight Reel from a lethal injection.”
“She stood in front of an assassin with an iron tool while my guards were sleeping off whatever bribe they took.”
“Declan, let him go!” Rowan called out, pushing the duvet aside despite the sharp pain in her bandaged bicep.
Declan didn't release his grip immediately.
He held his younger brother pinned for three long seconds, letting Cormac feel the absolute lethal authority behind his fingers.
Finally, Declan opened his hand, letting Cormac stumble forward, coughing and rubbing his bruised throat.
“You speak to her with respect,” Declan said, his voice deadly calm once more.
“You treat her like you would treat me.”
“If anyone in this organization looks at her the wrong way, I will take it as a personal declaration of war.”
Cormac straightened his jacket, glaring at Rowan with a mixture of resentment and newfound dread.
“Frank found something else in the north paddock,” Cormac wheezed, recovering his voice.
Declan’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“A tire tread from an unregistered black utility vehicle,” Cormac answered, looking back at Declan.
“And a second spent nine-millimeter casing behind the water trough.”
“Whoever shot her didn't leave the estate on Tuesday night.”
“They hid in the old carriage cellar until the gates opened for the caterers yesterday afternoon.”
Rowan felt the hair on her arms stand on end.
The man who had shot her had been mere yards away from her bedroom all week long.
Declan turned slowly back toward Rowan, the darkness in his expression swallowing the morning light.
“Get Frank,” Declan told Cormac.
“Bring him to the stables.”
“Rowan and I are going to inspect stall fourteen.”
“Declan, Dr. Byrne told her to rest,” Cormac warned.
“She knows the layout better than any guard on this payroll,” Declan said, walking back to the bed and offering his hand to Rowan.
May you like
“Come, Rowan.”
“Show me exactly where you bled for my family.”
