I’m not looking at him.

I’m not looking at him.

I. Am. Not. Looking. At. Him.

I fail and glance up for the hundredth time on this interminable flight, and take in the man before me.

I’ve used the word never so many times when it comes to Mount, only to break my vows, that I don’t know what to think anymore.

Why does he have to be who he is? That’s the conflict I can’t get past. Somehow on this trip, I’ve convinced myself that if he were anyone else, everything would be different, and I would finally have found the one man who can give me everything I want and need. A partner.

But with each hour we spend in this plane, I can feel darkness gather around him like a tangible cloud, snuffing out the easiness of his posture that loosened more each day we were in Dublin.

I want a do-over.

I want a chance to revel in the differences that I didn’t appreciate enough while we were there.

But I can’t have that either.

When the wheels of the jet touch down on the runway at Lakefront Airport, I will go back to being Keira Kilgore, in debt to Lachlan Mount up to my eyeballs, my body his to use as he wishes in repayment.

Nothing will have changed, but at the same time, it feels like everything has.

I bury myself in work, expanding on all the notes I made after the distillery tour. I compose an email to Deegan Sullivan, thanking him personally and giving him an open invitation to come to Seven Sinners anytime he happens to be in New Orleans.

Then I start working on a plan for how we can implement safety measures in the most economical way so we can discuss starting tours of the distillery. For the first time, I don’t give a single thought to what my father will say when he hears about it.

The crystal-bottle award lying beside me tells me that what we’re doing at our little distillery matters, and it’s my job to take us to the next level in any way I possibly can.

I tell myself I won’t touch the capital in the bank unless I absolutely have to, because I want to be able to repay the debt.

But if I do that, what ties me to the man seated across from me? Nothing.

Only a week ago, I would have celebrated the idea.

There’s something wrong with me. I can’t possibly feel this way.

By the time the tires hit the runway and the jet comes to a halt in front of the hangar, I’ve come to terms with something that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.

I don’t hate Lachlan Mount.

* * *

Mount leads the way down the stairs, holding out a hand at the bottom. Before we left, I changed out of my gown and into a simple white blouse and a pair of dark skinny jeans. Mount didn’t bother to change out of his suit. At this point, I consider it his natural uniform.

I expect to see Scar waiting for us with the usual car, but Mount strides toward the hangar door.

“Is he late? He’s never late.”

“V’s not coming. I’m driving.”

We step inside the large metal building, and a black muscle car with white racing stripes is parked inside.

“Whoa. Where did that come from?”

Mount glances over his shoulder as he walks to the wall to punch a code into a keypad next to a metal box. “My collection.”

When the door swings open, he pulls out the keys and closes it again. He uses one to open the trunk, and I take a step back.

“What? Afraid there’s going to be a body inside?”

“Is that humor? Did you just make a joke?”

An airport employee comes rushing in with our luggage before Mount can respond. Once the luggage is in the trunk, he unlocks the passenger side door for me.

“I don’t joke.”

“Bullshit,” I say, unable to stop myself.

His eyes narrow on me. “The rules are different now—”

“Now that we’re back? I’m getting that.” I settle myself in the seat and huff out a harsh laugh. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. After all, you have your reputation to uphold, and you never know who’s watching here.”

As his expression darkens, I look away, focusing on the award cradled in my lap. One piece of tangible proof I actually get to keep from this trip.

Mount slams my door and rounds the hood. When he takes the driver’s side of the bench seat and jams the keys into the ignition, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.

Even if he wanted to be the man he was in Ireland, it’s not possible here.

The engine roars to life, its growl perfectly suiting the temperament of the man driving it. He lets it warm up for a few minutes, both of us sitting in tense silence, before he backs it out and guns it.

I stare out the window, but instead of soaking up every bit of the city like I did in Dublin, I see nothing as we fly through the familiar streets.

I’m one hundred percent certain he’s breaking speed limits, but what cop would give him a ticket for it? He probably has most of them on his payroll.

We close in on the French Quarter, and instead of taking one of the convoluted routes I’m used to Scar driving, Mount heads through the heart of it toward home.

Home.

I scoff at the word silently. That’s not what it is, and I’m an idiot if I think it’s anything but the same lavish prison cell it was before we left.

We’re not dancing in Dublin anymore.

Mount slows for a few pedestrians at a stop sign before punching the gas and jerking the wheel hard to the right. The car rockets forward, tires squealing, and his body swings toward me as he turns.

“Fuck!”

What the hell?

His body arches further toward mine, and everything turns to chaos.

People say when traumatic things happen, the world decelerates so you can see it unfold in slow motion.

It doesn’t work like that for me.

The driver’s side window shatters, glass shards flying everywhere. The only thing I comprehend is pain as Mount jerks the wheel again and my head slams against my window. The car crashes into a lamppost before toppling it and coming to a halt.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Holes punch through the spiderwebbed windshield.

Shocked, I struggle to draw in a breath, but I can’t.

“Keira!”

Mount’s yell sounds faint as the world fades around me.

I blink twice, my lids heavier each time. My head sags forward and I blink again.

When did my shirt turn red?

“Look at me! Keira!”

I try to lift my head, but it’s heavy.

He struggles with the seat belt, ripping it off before he leans toward me. More red drips off his hand as he reaches for my face.

Is that . . . blood? My thoughts go fuzzier.

“Stay with me, Keira. Please. Fucking. Stay. With. Me.”

I hear his orders, but they grow fainter with each word. My eyes slip closed.

“No!” It’s like a lion whispering in the jungle.

Someone lifts my head, and I force my lids open once more, just for a second. It’s long enough to see the pain, fury, and devastation in his dark gaze.

“Lachlan?”

“Stay with me. I’m not going to fucking lose you now!”

“Can’t. Breathe.” My eyes slide shut again as sirens wail in the distance, and Lachlan Mount yells my name before everything goes completely silent.

* * *