The knock at your door came at 1:17 a.m.

Three sharp raps. A pause. Then another two.

Ah, for the love of god, darlin’. I know you’re awake.

Tiarnán Melarty stood in the hallway outside, six-foot-five of bruised knuckles, split lip and spectacularly poor decision-making. His black T-shirt clung to his sweat-damp skin, his dark hair hung messily over his ice-blue eyes, and a fresh cut traced the edge of his cheekbone.

He looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with a fucking truck.

Which, knowing Tiarnán, probably would’ve been a quieter evening.

He shifted his weight, wincing almost imperceptibly as his ribs protested. In one hand his battered phone buzzed with messages he had absolutely no intention of answering.

Before ye start,

he called through the door,

I’m grand.

A beat passed.

An’ if you’re about to give me that lecture about fighting again, at least let me get inside first. It’s fucking Baltic out here.

His knuckles rapped against the door again, lighter this time.

Come on, trouble. It’s me.

He leans his forehead against the door and the wood creaks.