Chapter 1

Mr. Walsh had always been a good man. She always called him Mr. Walsh. He was always smiling and kind, ready with a joke or a good word whenever she was hurt or upset, like a brother. Well, she was upset now.

Her friends had warned her, had whispered their stories around her, about a man who'd charmed every woman in the Archaeology Department and stole their achievements right out from under their noses, but she shook them off with a laugh. She would never be taken advantage of like that. She was the serious one, the studious one, the one who was so committed she'd neglected relationships for her magnum opus. But then they met in the library.

He'd swept her off her feet, took her paper with a smile and wave and a promise of something more, and never looked back as he left. She flew between worried and sad staring at her blank messages, texting all those same friends that tried to warn her. Then, she checked his socials.

He was on a beach in the Irish isles, shaking hands with one of the most eminent researchers in her field, and she saw a familiar folder of papers in his hand, the plastic glinting like treasure in the flash of the camera. Her phone dinged with message after message, her friends all replying back to her, but she couldn't look, couldn't speak. An almost wail tumbled past her lips, and she spent the rest of the day huddled on her floor in her empty apartment, sobbing.

She couldn't tell her dad about what had happened. He'd never taken her academic work seriously, always answering with a "that's nice sweetie," when she talked about her latest find. But Mr. Walsh? Blue eyes and 6 feet tall, with iron gray hair, an Irish king who told her stories of ancient fens and faerie rings and graves filled with treasure? He'd understand, even if he worked for her father.

Brushing the knots out of her blonde hair, she put on her armor, some lipstick, a bit of concealer and blush. She looked fine, she thought, as she looked in the mirror. Very put together. Very professional. She nodded, a determined look in her brown eyes, opened her door, and ran smack dab into Mr. Walsh.

Before she could even react, his strong arms, corded with muscle, were around her waist, keeping her from falling to the floor. She looked up into his eyes, his beautiful sea blue eyes, and immediately started crying.

"Shhh, shhh," came his voice, rough like gravel and a roiling sea. "Go on, it's okay." He tightened his arms around her as she sobbed into his chest. He was warm, and strong, unyielding, and exactly what she needed in this moment.

"I'm sorry," she said, and chuckled with a wetness in her voice. "I stained your shirt, Mr. Walsh." There was a streak of red on his white shirt, tracing an outline around one of his well-defined pecs. He shrugged, moving his broad shoulders in one fluid motion. "It's not a problem Kelly. The problem is your tears."

He sat down on her bed and patted the space next to him. "Come on, tell me what happened." She took a deep shuddering breath. She was safe with this man. She told the whole story to Mr. Walsh, and as she spoke, her tears fell again as her voice broke. She hated feeling this vulnerable, but it was okay in front of him. As she got to the social media post, he gestured again, and pulled her in for one more tight and warm embrace. She whispered the story into his marred white shirt through her sobs. When she was finished, she wiped her eyes, and pulled out of his embrace. He was frowning, staring off into the distance, his eyes deep and stormy, one of his hands close to hers.

He was so handsome. His stormy grey eyes, his soot hair, his unblemished alabaster skin, the lilting edge of an Irish accent, and he cared about her. He was a knight in shining armor, but now she could see how much he fit that, physically.

She could practically trace the lines of his chest, damp with her tears. His muscles were perfectly sculpted, and normally wouldn't be out of place in the airbrushed photos of a fashion magazine, On him, they looked natural, like they'd been crafted for him, a fact of the universe. Snow was freezing, light was warm, and Mr. Walsh was ripped.

I can't have those thoughts now, not about him. she thought. It's just because I've had my heart broken and my work stolen. It's Mr. Walsh, your dad's friend and coworker, he's a brother to---

"Give me his cell phone number." His voice turned into a growl, deep from his powerful chest, cutting her thoughts off.

That wasn't very knightly. More like a stalking wolf, a predator, and it sent a shiver down her spine. A warm feeling settled into her stomach. A twinge of fear and, something else?

She took a deep breath out of exertion and hesitation. Even if she didn't know how, she knew Mr. Walsh was a storming sea, and she knew he would drown someone for her. He'd made that clear, when she . She had power in that moment. She would use it.

Kelly gave him the number.

"Good," he said, that growl still there, as he pulled out a small blue notebook the same colour of his eyes, and jotted it down. Kelly was surprised by that. He seemed like the type to have an expensive phone glued to his ear. "That's very old fashioned of you Mr. Walsh."

He smiled at her, a grin that was friendly, but still wild. "In my line of work, important things shouldn't live in that damned cloud of yours."

He thought I was important? she thought. Before she could respond, he flipped his pad closed, and kissed her on the cheek. "Justice will be done, my Kelly, and it's okay, you've known me long enough. Please, call me Rian."

She nodded, the knot in her throat loosening, "Thank you, Rian."

He smiled again, an easy natural smile, and left her room.

She touched her cheek which was still burning, the feeling of his lips on her skin a balm on her soul. His voice, she'd never heard him sound like that before. A flash in her mind, of surging muscles and entwined bodies and sweat, her voice rising to a fever pitch and his voice answering her in that primal growl. His lips leaving trails of fire down her body.

She almost yelped. She'd never had those thoughts before, at least not about any specific person. She pushed that down again, deep inside of her. It wouldn't be appropriate for her to think things like that.

But it could be, a smaller voice inside of her said.