Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Bryan
T he water is hip-deep and smells like death.
I’m talking about the unnatural lovechild between rot and sewage and chemical runoff, the kind of scent that singes your nasal passages and coats the back of your throat like oil.
It’s thick down here—icy, oppressive. No space to breathe, no light to guide.
The perfect place for a person to bleed out and vanish, really.
I shift my weight, water sloshing against my jeans as I plant one hand against the damp tunnel wall, the other hovering just above the surface where something—not small—brushed past my leg five seconds ago.
I didn’t shout, which I think deserves a medal. Because I don’t want Harper to freak out and think twice about coming down here.
That ship has sailed.
“Bryan,” Harper calls from above, her voice echoing down the narrow shaft. She sounds breathless and pissed. “This is insane.”
“We’ve already established that,” I call back, adjusting my footing on the slippery concrete beneath me. “Keep bracing your back against back wall and use your hands and feet to shimmy down here. Palms wide. Feet flat.”
“You better still be down there.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Bailed. Left me to rot. Eaten by mutant sewer rats. Take your pick.”
“Still here.” I grit my teeth against the cold as another ripple brushes my thigh. “Standing in god-knows-what and hoping whatever just swam past wasn’t sentient.”
“That’s not helping.”
“Neither are you. Get your arse down here.”
I glance up the dark passage and see nothing. My heart is pounding harder than it should, and not just from the threat of drowning in a Victorian-era shit tunnel. We argued about this—hard.
She didn’t want to go first in case I couldn’t fit, said she wasn’t about to crawl into a death tube only for me to get stuck like some idiot in a horror film.
I said fuck that , because I wasn’t about to leave her alone with only a bolted door between her and Mason. What if he or his men came back, and I was at the bottom of a storm drain?
We argued. Wasted time. I went first.
And now I wait. Wet, anxious, and trying to ignore the way my adrenaline is playing chicken with my better judgment.
The scrape of her boots on the stone is getting louder, so I can only hope she’s almost down.
Then her foot slides into view.
“Good, girl.” I coach her, raising both arms now, ready to catch. “Keep your back pressed against the wall, slow and steady.”
She lowers herself inch by inch, bracing her shoulders and feet like I told her. “My legs feel like Jell-O”
“Imagine how they’d feel if you weren’t as fit as you are. You’re killing it.”
She edges her way down the drain shaft and my anxiety doesn’t ease. They can’t beat or rape her now if they come back, but they could still shoot down the drain and kill her that way.
I hate that my mind works that way, that I can envision the horrors of all the ways someone could be killed in any situation.
An occupational hazard, I suppose.
Her foot slips below the ceiling line above where I’m standing and I surge forward, reaching up to catch her calf. “I’ve got you.”
She swears under her breath but steadies herself.
Finally, she lowers far enough for me to slide my arms around her waist and ease her down into the water beside me. Her body presses against mine, hot against the cold, and for one heartbeat—one stupid, out-of-place heartbeat—I forget we’re in a storm drain escaping capture by the Masons.
“Thanks,” she mutters, her breath brushing the side of my jaw.
I nod once. “You okay?”
“Not even a little.”
“Good. I’d be worried if you were.”
I take her hand, my fingers closing tight around hers. With my other hand braced on the curved tunnel wall, we start forward. Water sloshes with every step, slow and heavy. The ceiling dips low, forcing us to hunch.
“Can you see where you’re going?”
I squint, straining my gaze forward. “Nope. It’ll be slow going, but no matter what it takes, I’ll get you out of here.”
* * *
The first boot hits the dock with a solid thud, and just like that, I’m home. The air smells different here—salt and soot and diesel, laced with the unmistakable burn of turf smoke carried in from the outskirts.
Dublin’s heartbeat. Imperfectly perfect.
I step off the loading ramp of the cargo boat, muscles aching from the journey, Harper and Kieran trailing behind me. The wind off the Liffey bites through my jacket, but I hardly feel it.
What I do feel are the eyes waiting for me.
Tag’s the first to move—arms crossed, face unreadable until I’m two steps from him. Then he pulls me into a crushing hug that nearly knocks the air out of me. “Welcome home, B. You’ve been missed, brother.”
“Aye, I missed home, too.”
“Well, you took your sweet-ass time getting back to where you belong.” Brenny pulls me in, slapping my back.
“Things were hot. We had to take the scenic route,” I say into his shoulder.
When he pulls back, Sean steps in, pulling me into a bear hug that nearly dislocates my ribs. It’s like he knows I nearly got dead half a dozen times across two countries. “Good to see your ugly mug, little brother.”
“I’m happy to be seen.”
And Finn—always our quietest—clasps my arm and holds tight, nodding once. “Glad to have you home.”
I chuckle. “Brendan getting on your nerves without me here to distract him?”
Finn rolls his eyes and chuckles. “You have no idea.”
“Hey,” Brenny protests. “Fuck you, assholes.”
The five of us chuckle and the familiarity of it soothes my nerves more than anything else has.
The Dublin Devils are representing, too—half a dozen rough bastards in patched leather, arms folded over chests, one or two offering nods of greeting.
“Hello, boys. I take it you’ve been keeping the streets safe in my absence?”
Drake laughs. “We did our damnedest.”
It’s nice of them to show their support. The Dublin Devils MC is loyalty carved in stone.
For a second, I let the warmth of it settle into my chest. Home. Blood. Brotherhood.
Then I glance back at Harper.
She stands on the edge of the ramp, observing with that journalistic intrigue of hers. She’s still pissed at me. Shoulders tense. Chin high. Eyes sharp.
She doesn’t want to be here and made that clear.
She also doesn’t have anywhere safer to go.
I walk back to her, fighting the urge to brush the windblown hair from her face. My touch is no longer welcome. She made that clear the moment we were free from Eddie Mason and safe.
Still, she’s here—that counts for something.
“Everyone, this is Harper.” I gesture to her and watch as everyone passes assessing gazes over her. My brothers looking doesn’t bother me, but the way Drake and the Devils eye her up and down has my beast pacing to the foreground. “She’s the one who found Siobhan.”
Harper stiffens. It’s a touchy subject, I know, but there’s no sense sweeping it under the rug. It’s the elephant in the room. She found Siobhan. And now Siobhan is dead. The only question now is how we move forward.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend. Just stands her ground while a group of very dangerous men take her measure.
Tag is the one who steps forward first, offering his hand. “You helped Bryan. That means something to us.”
Harper shakes it, barely.
The rest follow with brief greetings, but no one presses. They sense it—her grief, her tension, the unsaid weight she’s carrying because of her part in Siobhan’s death.
We call it justice. But Harper? She calls it murder.
She doesn’t want their thanks or need their appreciation—she just wants to be gone.
Can’t say I blame her.
We wrap up quick. Tag peels off to hand the captain a fat envelope and pegs him with a look that says don’t ever speak of this again.
The man sails off without a backward glance.
The rest of us head toward the waiting vehicles. The Devils mount up and roar out first, bikes thundering into the darkness.
Kieran drops Harper’s duffel into the backseat of my Hilux, then claps me on the shoulder. “You driving her to the house?”
“Aye.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say be careful , but it’s there in the look.
I open the passenger door and wait.
Harper eyes me for a second too long, like she’s still deciding if getting in this truck with me is the lesser of all evils. Then she climbs in, wordless, and pulls the door shut.
I circle to the driver’s side, slide in, and start the engine. She keeps her eyes on the road ahead, not me.
“I told you I’ll keep you safe,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And I will. You’ll have the place to yourself. Stocked. Secure. You can come and go as you please.”
“And if I want to leave Dublin altogether?”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Then we’ll figure that out, too. For now, while you’re still investigating Eddie and his trafficking activities, this is the safest place for you.”
She doesn’t thank me.
But she doesn’t argue either.
As I pull onto the road, the city rises before us in shadow and light—danger and memory wrapped in stone.
Fuck, it’s good to be home.