61. Aoife
Aoife
The sun barely peeks through the thick curtains, but I’ve been awake for hours. Sleep has barely touched me all week. I blame Eamon and our night on his boat.
He was up early, leaving before the first light of day to handle some business, slipping out of bed with a quiet efficiency that should’ve let me sleep. It didn’t. Because the moment the door clicked shut behind him, I was left with nothing but my thoughts about him.
Which is a problem because I should be thinking about the pieces on the board. About the way the walls are closing in around me. Instead, my body betrays me, longing for his hands, his mouth, the feel of him deep inside me.
That should terrify me. I don’t have time for this.
I push myself upright, running a hand over my face.
There’s too much happening, too many moving parts.
I can’t let myself get distracted. Not when Cian is breathing down my neck, and Ruairi refuses to see me as his equal.
My growing feelings for Eamon only complicate an already impossible situation.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I stare at the screen for half a second before swiping to answer. "You’re calling early," I say, keeping my voice even.
"Plans have changed," Cian says, cutting straight to the point. "I’m moving up the timeline."
A pulse of irritation flares through me, and I sit up straighter. "That’s not a good idea."
"I didn’t ask if it was a good idea."
I grit my teeth. "It’s too soon. I need more time to ensure everything’s in place. If we move too quickly, we risk losing control."
"And I risk losing patience," he cuts in. "You’ve been playing both sides too well. Maybe a little too well."
My pulse kicks up. "Don’t insult me."
"Then don’t make me question your loyalty."
I go still, my body locking down around the anger tightening in my chest.
"You don’t have to question me."
"Are you sure about that?" Cian’s voice carries a mocking lilt designed to peel back my defenses.
"Yes," I answer without hesitation.
A beat of silence stretches between us before he exhales sharply. "Good," he says, voice clipped. "Then I expect you to make it happen."
"I’ll get back to you by tomorrow," I say, each word measured, leashing the fury tightening in my chest.
A beat of silence. Then, the slow, deliberate drag of his breath through the speaker.
"Don’t keep me waiting, Aoife. You won’t like what happens if you do."
The call cuts out. I let the phone fall onto the bed, the sound sharp in the silence, and draw in a slow, fractured breath.
I need a plan.
Now.
Cian is impatient. Ruairi is oblivious. And Eamon has tangled himself through my blood, my bones, and my breath in ways I don't have time to untangle now.
I shove the thought aside, push everything aside except the gnawing truth clawing at the edges of my mind. If I get this wrong, one, or both, of the men I care about will die.
Because of me.
That’s why I kept Ruairi in the pit longer than I should have.
Not for cruelty.
Not entirely.
Once I realized Cian meant to kill him, I needed to keep Ruairi contained. There, in the pit, he was helpless.
He was mine to guard.
Mine to punish.
Mine to save—or not.
And somewhere deep beneath the layers of loyalty and love, in the place where anger rots into something unrecognizable, I wonder if a part of me wanted him there. Wanted him afraid. Wanted him to know what it felt like to drown and beg and break.
Because maybe he deserves it. Maybe he deserves worse.
The thought festers, black and hollow inside my chest.
I don't want to look at it.
I don't want to know if it's true.
But it's there, whispering in the spaces between my heartbeats.
Let him drown