74. Aoife
Aoife
Seamus is pacing near the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and clipped. "Castle grounds," he says. "Use the south entrance." He pauses, listening, then adds, "I want them gone before sunrise."
I know who he’s talking to. The clean-up crew. The kind of men you don’t find in the yellow pages.
Bridget’s wrapped around Ruairi, holding onto him like she can keep him whole if she holds him tight enough. Her voice is soft but insistent. "You need to go to the hospital."
Ruairi shakes his head, slow and deliberate. "No."
"You can barely stand," she presses, her voice breaking. "Ruairi, please. They need to do scans. Check you for internal bleeding?—"
"No hospitals," he says again, forcing the words past cracked lips. "Too many questions."
Bridget’s frustration flashes across her face. "I don’t care about questions. I care about you staying alive."
Before Ruairi can snap back, Eamon steps in.
"I’ll call my physician," he says calmly.
Bridget turns toward him, uncertain. "Is he a real doctor?"
"He’s treated me for years," Eamon says, his voice steady with conviction. "I trust him with my life."
Without waiting for confirmation, he calls the doctor. His voice is low, clipped, giving him only the bare essentials. He ends the call, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “He’ll meet us at my penthouse.”
Bridget looks back at Ruairi, searching his face for any sign of agreement.
Ruairi gives a single nod. "We’ll go."
Bridget doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t argue. She hooks her arm under Ruairi’s, helping Seamus guide him toward the exit.
Eamon turns to me, his hand coming to rest on my lower back. "Come on," he says gently. "Let’s go home."
Seamus drives, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, his reflection in the rearview mirror hollowed by guilt and dread he doesn’t bother trying to hide.
Bridget keeps her arms around Ruairi. He’s slumped against her, racked with violent coughs, every breath a ragged wheeze. Tears streak her face as she pleads with him again, her voice shaking. "Please, Ruairi. Let us take you to the hospital."
"No hospitals," he rasps, his voice barely above a breath. "No questions."
Bridget’s face twists in frustration. "You need real medical care, Ri?—"
"I said—" His voice shatters mid-sentence, breaking into a fit of coughing that wracks his entire body. When he forces his head up again, his glare is fierce, stubborn, daring anyone to argue.
She exhales loudly but doesn’t push anymore. Instead, she presses her forehead against his temple, her eyes squeezed shut as if trying to hold back tears.
The air inside the vehicle is thick, weighted with everything that’s happened.
I can still feel it. The blood drying on my skin. The gunshot ringing in my ears. The weight of Ronan’s body collapsing onto me. My fingers twitch, itching to scrub it all away.
Eamon shifts beside me. He hasn’t let go of me since we got into the car. His hand is firm on my thigh, grounding me. But I still feel like I’m unraveling.
Staring out the window, I watch as we leave the castle behind.
We don’t speak. What the hell is there to say?
Seamus pulls into the hotel's underground garage. The second the vehicle stops, Eamon’s already moving.
"Come on," he murmurs, his voice meant only for me. "Let’s get you upstairs."
The elevator doors slide open. Two of Eamon’s guards are already waiting. They move without needing orders and step forward to help relieve Seamus of Ruairi’s weight.
The elevator shudders as it begins to rise, every second stretched thin under the weight of what we've just survived. Ruairi’s breathing is ragged, each shallow gasp cutting through the suffocating silence.
Bridget doesn’t let go of him. Seamus keeps a steady hand on his shoulder, holding him upright.
The floors tick by too slow, too loud. When we finally reach the penthouse, the doors slide open, and I’m hit with the heavy scent of antiseptic.
Dr. Kearney stands just inside the doorway, his sleeves already rolled up, a small medical kit open beside him, his expression focused.
He’s ready for whatever damage Ruairi’s broken body will reveal.
His eyes sweep over my brother and then land on me. "Is she hurt?" he asks, taking in the blood streaked across my face and arms.
I don’t answer. I’m not sure I could if I tried.
"She’s not injured," Eamon answers for me, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. "The blood’s not hers."
Dr. Kearney nods once. "My things are set up in the guest room. I’ll start with him." He gestures for the guards to bring Ruairi through the hall. Bridget follows them wordlessly, her hand never leaving her husband’s back.
The second we’re alone, Eamon turns to me, his expression softening. "Let me take care of you."
I nod.
He doesn’t say anything else as he laces his fingers through mine and leads me down the hall to our room. Once we’re inside, he closes the door and turns to me. His gaze darkens, skimming over my ruined clothes, over the dried blood, the grime. The evidence of everything that happened tonight.
I feel it, heavy on my skin. It clings and suffocates me. But I don’t react. I don’t know how.
Eamon moves with care. His hands find the hem of my shirt, but he doesn’t rush. He undresses me gently, his fingers unhurried, as if he’s peeling away layers of something fragile.
The fabric is stiff with blood as he pulls it over my head. It lands on the floor with a quiet thud, but the sound feels deafening. His fingers skim down my arms, dragging away the remnants of tonight. My pants follow, sliding down my legs, pooling at my feet.
I stand there, bare, cold despite the warmth of the penthouse, despite Eamon’s hands on me.
His brows pull together, concern flashing across his face. He cups my cheek, his thumb dragging over my jaw. “Aoife.”
I blink but don’t answer. I can’t. Something inside me has gone still—too still.
Eamon exhales sharply as if he was hoping for some kind of response.
When he steps back, his hands go to his own clothes. The soft rustle of fabric fills the heavy silence between us, but I barely hear it. Everything feels muted like I’m underwater.
His shirt drops to the floor first, followed by his belt and pants. I don’t even register the way he watches me as he strips, steady and unblinking. I can barely see him through the haze choking my vision.
Then he’s there, solid and real, his arms wrapping around me without a word. He lifts me easily like I weigh nothing. Like my broken pieces aren’t a burden he’s afraid to carry.
The bathroom light cuts through the darkness, too bright, too clean. It feels wrong, like shining a light on a corpse. The water hisses from the faucet, roaring in my ears.
Eamon steps into the shower with me, still holding me close.
The first blast of heat scalds my skin, but I don't care. Pain is something. It means I'm still here.
Red stains the water the moment it touches me. It streaks down my arms in thick rivulets, smears against my legs, and pools at my feet. I stand there, watching it swirl down the drain, endless and slow, like no matter how much washes away, more will keep coming.
The coppery stench clings to me—thick, nauseating. It seeps into my hair, my nails, my skin. Into my bones. Into whatever's left of me.
And then it hits me, sharp and brutal. It isn’t just Ronan’s blood slipping from my body.
It’s everything.
Cian’s betrayal. Ruairi’s war.
Every lie. Every wound.
The last pieces of who I was.
The girl who thought she could survive this and come out clean.
The girl who believed survival meant something.
She’s gone.
What's left now is something empty. Something ruined.
The nausea claws up without warning. I double over, retching hard. Eamon catches me instantly, his arms steady and warm, grounding me when I have nothing left to hold onto.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Not even when I shake so violently my teeth clatter against each other.
The strength bleeds out of my legs, and I collapse. Eamon comes down with me, slow and careful, lowering us both to the slick tile floor. He pulls me against him, his chest bare and solid beneath my forehead.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my hair.
“I don’t think I’ve got me,” I press my face against him and just breathe—or try to.
My lungs stutter, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps that won't quite fill me. But Eamon’s arms stay firm, wrapped around me like he’s trying to shield me from the whole collapsing world.
Something inside me gives way.
Everything I’ve held inside, the pain, the exhaustion, the fear, the rage, spills out in a broken sob that I can’t hold back. I curl into him, terrified that if I let go, they’ll be nothing left of me.
He doesn’t tell me it’s okay. Because it’s not.
He rocks me gently, steady against the trembling that I can’t control. His lips brush the crown of my head, soft and reverent, and he murmurs into my hair words low and fierce, meant for me and no one else.
"I’ve got you, mo chroí ," he whispers. "You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever."
His fingers stroke slowly down my back, over the curve of my bare shoulders, tracing every broken piece as if learning how to hold them together.
"I’ll carry this with you," he breathes. "Every scar. Every burden. I’m not letting you face it alone."
I don’t know how long we sit there, the water pouring over us, washing away everything except the ruin left inside me.
When the sobs finally subside, when my chest aches from the force of it all, Eamon's voice breaks through the quiet. "Why didn’t you come to me?" he asks, low, rough.
I inhale, the sound sharp in the wet air between us.
"Aoife." He tilts my chin up, gentle but insistent, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Why didn’t you let me help you?" His thumb brushes my cheek. "You were never meant to carry this alone."
My throat tightens painfully, but it’s not grief now. Not rage. It’s something rawer. Bare.
"I had to prove it," I whisper, my voice nearly drowned by the hiss of the water. "To Ruairi. To you. To myself. That I could handle it. That I could be the one to run the Syndicate."
Eamon exhales slowly, brushing a strand of soaked hair from my face. "No one survives this life alone," he murmurs, steady and sure. "Letting the people who love you carry you isn’t weakness."
My breath stutters.
Love.
I blink up at him, the word slamming through my heart louder than the roar of the water in my ears. "You said the people who love me," I whisper, almost afraid to believe it.
His fingers trail the line of my jaw, so tender it breaks something new inside me. "I love you," he says like it’s the simplest truth in the world. "I’ve loved you from the moment I ran into you on that beach."
A broken sound escapes me—half a breath, half a sob.
I don't deserve this.
I don't deserve him.
The words rise, desperate to spill free, but he presses a finger gently against my lips.
"Don’t," he whispers. "Don’t apologize for surviving."
Tears burn behind my eyes. Tears I thought I'd emptied already.
I shake my head, my heart splitting open. "I love you too, Eamon."
He kisses me then, not rough, not claiming, just infinite. He kisses me like a prayer, like a vow whispered to the wreckage of who I used to be.
When he finally pulls away, it’s only to lift me carefully to my feet, his hands never leaving my body, as if letting go might break me again. His fingertips move over my skin, slow and reverent, washing away the blood, the grime, the weight of everything I had to become to survive.
It’s not just a touch.
It’s devotion.
It’s worship.
It’s love—unconditional, unflinching, and eternal.
He says nothing as he moves, and he doesn't need to. Every stroke of his hands is a silent vow. I’m not going anywhere.
The water runs clear now.
The blood is gone.
But I’ll never forget the woman who stepped into this shower or the one Eamon cradled in his arms while she shattered.
Because she isn't the same anymore.
And maybe that's the point.
He wraps a towel around me like he’s shielding something sacred, pulling me into his arms once more. I press into him, feeling the steady, patient beat of his heart against my cheek.
And for the first time in a long, long time,
I allow myself to feel safe.
Not the girl I was.
Not yet the woman I’ll become.
Just me, broken and breathing, held together by the only man strong enough to stay.