Chapter 20 Zara
I wake tangled in hotel sheets that smell faintly of bleach and leftover frustration.
The night before plays on a loop I can’t silence—his mouth crushing into mine, his hands gripping my thighs, the heat between us rising to a merciless boil…
only for him to walk away as if it hadn’t cracked something wide open.
He fed me. Spoke in half-truths. Kissed me until my own name slipped from my mind.
And then left me aching, angry, and unsatisfied in every way that matters.
The ride back had been silent. No judgment about the hotel he dropped me off at, no pointed comments about the fact that it wasn’t the kind of place he’d ever set foot in.
He simply pulled to the curb, opened my door, and gave me one word: Goodnight.
Then he leaned against the car, arms crossed, watching until I disappeared inside.
I hadn’t even tried to resist the fire inside me once I got to my room.
I crawled beneath the sheets, my hand sliding between my thighs with the desperation of someone parched, searching for relief.
I chased it with the ghost of his mouth, the growl of his voice, the memory of Detroit.
He said no last night, but my body had burned anyway.
Now, morning light filters through the heavy curtains. I sit up, legs heavy, and press my feet into the carpet as if it might anchor me. It doesn’t. The ache still lingers, pulsing, a reminder of everything he denied me.
I drag a breath into my lungs and shove my hair out of my face. Work tonight will demand a mask I don’t feel ready to wear. But before that, I need to see Declan.
I push to my feet, bare skin prickling against the cool tile of the bathroom floor. I twist the shower knob, wait for steam to cloud the mirror, and then step beneath the spray. Hot water pours down my shoulders, across my back, but it does nothing to rinse away the sensation of him.
The cab ride feels endless, each red light stretching into eternity. By the time the hospital comes into view, my stomach knots so tight I can barely breathe.
Hospitals are quieter in the morning. Not calm, but subdued. The kind of hush that presses against your skin and crawls up the back of your neck. Like the walls are waiting. Holding their breath. And I swear they know before anyone else when something breaks.
I slip past the front desk without a word. The nurse sees me, nods once, lets me pass. She remembers me from yesterday—whispering goodbyes to someone who wasn’t ready to go. I told her I’d be back early. She promised to look the other way.
But I only make it halfway down the ICU hallway before I feel it.
The air is wrong. Too still. Too heavy. A type of quiet that follows the end of something permanent.
And then I see Kelly. Slumped on the floor just outside room 718, her shoulders shaking, her hands covering her face. Her body rocks with each sob, like she’s trying to fold in on herself. Her hair’s a mess and yesterday’s mascara runs in thin, messy trails down her cheeks.
My pulse stumbles.
I already know. I don’t need her to say it. The absence pouring out of that room says everything.
Still, I walk to her on legs that don’t feel like mine. I kneel carefully, and reach out with a shaking hand.
She lifts her face at the movement, and the look in her eyes steals whatever was left of my breath.
“He’s gone,” she says. Her voice cracks in the middle. “Zara…he’s gone.”
Something inside me caves.
The rest of the world fades. My ears buzz, my chest hollows out, and it feels like the ground’s giving out beneath me.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on, as much for her as for myself. She breaks against me, sobbing into my shoulder, hands fisting my shirt like she’s drowning. I still can’t cry. It’s too soon. Too sudden.
He was my shield. The only softness I ever knew inside the brutal world we were born into. And now, he’s just…gone.
When Kelly’s phone rings, she pulls away and shakily answers, her voice breaking as she talks to her parents. I tell her I’ll stay with him for a minute.
But when I step into the room, the bed is already empty.
No machines. No body in the bed. Just the pale green walls and the somber echo of everything I didn’t say.
I turn quickly and head for the family bathroom down the hall. I don’t want to fall apart where anyone can see.
The light above the mirror flickers. My reflection is pale, lips bloodless, mascara smudged beneath glassy eyes. I grip the sink, knuckles white, chest aching. I splash cold water on my face and press both palms flat to the counter, breathing through the ache.
He was the only one who ever looked out for me.
He used to sneak candy into my room when I was grounded. Walk me home from school when our father sent guards instead. He covered for me when I started stashing cash and fake documents and whispering about a life beyond our gates.
He always said, “If you go, I won’t stop you. But don’t forget I’ll always be here, I’ll always be your brother.”
The ache in my chest sharpens into dread the second the door creaks open behind me.
My head jerks up. In the mirror’s reflection, cold eyes meet mine. Broad shoulders filling the frame. A square jaw cut from stone. One of my father’s men. I don’t know his name, but I don’t need to. I know what he is here to do.
There’s no time to scream.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, smothering sound and breath in one brutal grip. His other hand fists at my waist, dragging me back with strength that feels inhuman. My nails rake across flesh, desperate, catching skin—I feel the sting of contact, but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s a machine.
The world blurs as he hauls me into the side hallway like I weigh nothing. My shoes scrape the floor. My body bucks and thrashes. None of it matters. His grip is iron.
An unmarked door. A metal staircase. Down, down, every step harder to fight than the last. By the time we reach the bottom, my lungs burn and my throat aches from screams that never made it past his hand.
The door flings open, and the afternoon air slaps me in the face. We spill onto the loading dock—cold concrete, oil stains, the hum of electricity overhead. And there it is.
A black SUV idles at the curb. Windows tinted so dark they look like voids. The engine humming like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
The back door opens with a smooth click.
My blood turns cold.
My father sits inside, legs crossed, posture relaxed, one hand resting on a cane that’s more theater than necessity.
His navy suit is immaculate, not a wrinkle, not a drop of grief or weather daring to touch it.
Gold glints on his finger—the Kavanagh crest carved into the ring, the same one he once made my brother kneel and kiss like a blessing.
His gaze lifts, finding mine and I feel it spear through me.
I haven’t seen him in over seven years, but he hasn’t aged a day. Same sharp smile. Same rot beneath the polish.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, voice smooth, warm in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I knew you’d come back for him.”
My throat tightens, fury and grief tangling like barbed wire. Before I can react, his man shoves me into the leather seat beside him. The door slams shut. The lock clicks like a final verdict.
My father studies me with quiet amusement, lips curving into something that could almost pass for affection. “You’ve been hard to find, Zara.”
I force the words past the bile rising in my throat. “You were looking?”
“Of course. You’re my daughter.”
“You sent someone to drag me out of a hospital.” My voice cuts sharp, brittle. “That’s not fatherly love.”
He tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t make this dramatic.”
“You showed up the morning my brother died.”
For a flicker of a second, his gaze hardens. Then he shrugs. “Yes. Tragic, isn’t it?”
The way he says the words makes my stomach clench. “Did you know there would be a hit?”
A beat. Then, calm as ever, “I knew he was vulnerable.”
My hands tremble in my lap, fingers clenched tight to hide it. “Did you…have anything to do with it?”
He tilts his head, like he’s savoring the moment. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Then he leans back, satisfied, like he’s already won. “I didn’t lay a hand on him. I didn’t have to. But I knew you wouldn’t stay away if something happened. And I was right.”
The words slam into me. “You let him walk into danger, just to bring me back here?”
“He was never meant to lead,” my father says, the warmth gone now, voice sharp as a blade. “He was weak. Sentimental. Loyal to you instead of the family. That kind of weakness puts a target on all of us. You were always the stronger one.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. “You let your own son die?”
His eyes are flat, bored, already moving past the subject. “I didn’t kill him, Zara. I simply stopped protecting him.”
The SUV lurches forward, tires hissing against wet pavement. My father straightens his cuffs, like this is nothing more than a business meeting.
“You were always going to come home eventually,” he says softly, almost pleased. “I just shortened the wait.”
My chest caves. My blood roars. And for the first time since I left Chicago, the truth burns clear in my veins. I never escaped. I was only living on borrowed time.