CHAPTER SEVEN
Aoife
TIME MOVES STRANGELY in hospitals. Minutes stretch into hours. Hours compress into moments. I watch the clock on the wall tick forward, but the numbers don't make sense anymore.
Reilan keeps hold of my hand. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say?
At some point, someone brings coffee. I cup the styrofoam container between my palms, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers. I don't drink it. Just hold it until it goes cold, then set it aside.
William paces. Back and forth across the small room like a caged animal. He's made at least a dozen phone calls, each one brief and clipped. Organizing something. Planning something. Probably preparing for war.
Because that's what this is now. War.
Someone shot my father. Was it meant for me? To end the alliance before it even began? I don't know. But the timing, the location, it can't be a coincidence.
The door opens, and the doctor appears.
I'm on my feet before he fully enters the room. Reilan rises beside me. Even William stops pacing, his entire body coiled tight.
"How is he?" My voice doesn't shake. Not anymore.
The doctor looks tired. His scrubs are spattered with blood. Father's blood. "The surgery was successful. The bullet hit his carotid artery, but we were able to repair the damage. He's stable now."
The relief is so intense it's almost painful. My knees weaken, and Reilan's hand on my elbow is the only thing keeping me upright.
"Can I see him?" I ask.
"He's in recovery. Still unconscious from the anesthesia." The doctor hesitates. "I should warn you—he's going to look rough. The trauma to his throat was significant. He has tubes for breathing and feeding. Monitors. It can be...alarming."
"I don't care." The words come out flat. Final. "I need to see him."
The doctor nods slowly. "Room 307. But only immediate family, and only one at a time."
"Go," Reilan says to me. "I'll wait here."
I start to argue, but he shakes his head. "You need to see him first. Go."
William moves to follow me, but I hold up a hand. "No."
He stops. "Someone just tried to kill you, Aoife. I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"Then you can stand outside the door." My tone leaves no room for argument. "But I'm seeing my father alone."
For a moment, I think he'll fight me. His jaw works like he's grinding his teeth. But then he nods once, sharp and reluctant.
We walk down the corridor in silence. Two security guards trail behind us. The hospital feels emptier now. Quieter. Most of the day staff has gone home. Night shift moves through the halls like ghosts.
Room 307 is at the end of another long hallway. William stations himself outside the door, arms crossed. I don't look at him as I push inside.
The room is dim. Just the glow of monitors and the soft beep of machines measuring things I don't understand. Father lies in the center of it all, so still that he barely looks human.
The doctor was right. He looks rough.
His throat is wrapped in thick bandages. A tube snakes from his mouth to a machine that breathes for him. More tubes in his arms. Wires everywhere, connecting him to monitors that display numbers and waves I can't interpret.
But he's alive.
I move to his bedside slowly. Afraid if I move too fast, he'll disappear. Or I'll wake up and discover this is all a nightmare.
My hand finds his where it rests on the white sheets. His skin is warmer now. Not cold like before. That has to be a good sign.
"You scared me," I whisper. My throat is tight, words barely making it out. "You really scared me."
He doesn't respond. Just lies there, chest rising and falling as the machine forces air into his lungs.
I sink into the chair beside his bed. The vinyl cushion creaks under my weight. I don't let go of his hand.
And then the memories come.
Not of tonight. Of before. Of being fifteen years old and sitting in a room that looked so much like this one.
Mother's hospital room.
Same machines. Same monitors. Same awful smell of antiseptic trying to mask decay. She'd been dying for six months by then. Cancer eating through her from the inside out. The doctors said she had days left. Maybe a week.
I'd sat exactly like this. Holding her hand. Watching her chest rise and fall with decreasing frequency. Wondering how long until the next breath wouldn't come.
"Don't leave me," I'd whispered to her. "Please. I'm not ready."
But she'd left anyway.
Slipped away in the middle of the night while I was sleeping in this exact type of chair. Reilan had woken me at dawn, his eyes red, and his hands shaking, when he told me she was gone.
I was fifteen. Barely old enough to understand what I was losing. Old enough to know I'd never get it back.
The grief had been immense. All-consuming. It swallowed me whole for months. I'd stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Moved through the world like a ghost, unable to connect with anything real.
Father had tried to help. Brought in therapists. Took time away from business to sit with me. But he didn't know how to fix this. Didn't know how to fill the hole Mother left behind.
And now I might lose him, too.
The thought makes my chest tighten until I can't breathe. Not again. I can't do this again.
"You have to wake up," I tell Father. My voice is steady despite the tears streaming down my face. "You have to fight, because I can't lose you. Not now. Not like this."
The machines beep their steady rhythm. Father doesn't move.
I lean forward, resting my forehead against our joined hands. "When Mother died, you told me that O'Rourkes don't quit. That we're survivors. That no matter what life throws at us, we get back up and keep fighting."
The memory is sharp. Clear. Father sitting on the edge of my bed three months after Mother's funeral, watching me cry myself sick yet again.
"You're an O'Rourke," he'd said. "That means something. It means you're stronger than you know. Tougher than anyone expects. Your mother was the strongest person I ever knew, and you have her strength. So get up. Fight. Live."
"So you have to fight, too," I tell him now. "You have to get up. You have to live. Because you're an O'Rourke, and O'Rourkes don't quit."
I use his own words against him. Hope they'll reach wherever he is. Hope they'll give him something to hold onto in the dark.
The door opens behind me. I don't turn around.
"Aoife." Reilan's voice, soft. "It's been an hour. We should let him rest."
An hour? It felt like minutes.
I stand slowly, my back protesting after sitting hunched for so long. I smooth down Father's hair where it's sticking up from the bandages. Press a kiss to his forehead.
"I'll be back," I promise. "As soon as they let me."
Reilan's hand settles on my shoulder as we leave. In the hallway, William is exactly where I left him. Alert. Watchful. Looking like he hasn't moved an inch.
"How is he?" William asks.
"Alive." It's the only word that matters. "He's alive."
"Good." William's jaw unclenches slightly. "We should go. It's late, and—"
"No."
He blinks at me. "No?"
"No," I repeat firmly. "I'm staying here. With my father."
"Aoife, it's past midnight. You're exhausted. You need to—"
"I need to be here." I cut him off. "In case he wakes up. In case something happens. In case—" My voice cracks, and I force it steady. "I'm staying."
William and Reilan exchange a look. Some kind of silent communication, I'm too tired to decipher.
"Then I'm staying, too," Reilan says.
"So am I," William adds.
I want to argue. Want to send them both away so I can sit with my father in peace. But the truth is, I'm grateful. Grateful not to be alone in this sterile hospital while my father fights for his life.
Grateful that in this moment, for once, I don't have to be strong by myself.
We return to Father's room. I take the chair beside his bed again. Reilan leans against the wall by the window. William stations himself by the door like a sentinel.
And we wait.
The night stretches long and dark. The hospital settles into its nocturnal rhythm. Nurses check in periodically, adjusting monitors, noting vitals. They speak in hushed tones and move with practiced efficiency.
I don't sleep. Can't. Just sit holding Father's hand and watching the rise and fall of his chest. Counting breaths like prayers.
Reilan dozes eventually, his head tilted back against the wall. William doesn't sleep either. Just stands there, silent and watchful, like he's guarding us all from whatever comes next.
At some point, the sky outside the window begins to lighten. Dawn creeping in to paint the room in shades of gray. The machines continue their steady beeping. Father remains unconscious.
And I sit.
And watch.
And wait for him to wake up, so I can tell him everything I should have said before. Before tonight. Before the bullet. Before I ever walked into the Murphy house and signed my life away.
Before it all went wrong.
Sunlight is streaming through the window when William finally speaks.
"It's time to go."
I don't look at him. Don't acknowledge the words. Just keep my eyes on Father's face, willing him to wake.
"Aoife." William's voice is closer now. "You've been here all night. You need rest. Food. Sleep."
"No."
"This isn't a suggestion."
Something in his tone makes me turn. He's moved closer without me noticing, standing just a few feet away. The morning light catches the exhaustion in his face. The tension in his jaw. The stubborn set of his shoulders.
"I'm not leaving him," I say.
"I understand that. But…"
"You don't understand." The words come out sharp. Angry. "You don't understand anything about this. About what I'm feeling. About what I need."
"Then explain it to me," William says, and there's an edge to his voice now. A warning.