Chapter Seventeen #2
“Don’t ye dare do that,” she scolds softly, her Irish lilt matching Ma’s. “Get over here, ya eejit.”
Her embrace is careful but full, and I melt into it. She smells like rosewater and hospital soap. Relief burns through me so fast it almost hurts. Over her shoulder, I see Sam watching, waiting, standing behind Alisha with a hand on her shoulder. He must have come up after I had heard Selene.
“Hi, brother,” I whisper.
“Hi, sissy.” He squeezes my arm. His eyes look older somehow, tired but bright.
Then Ma’s there, pressing into us, her curls brushing my cheek. Papa wraps his arms around the whole pile of us. The weight of their bodies, their warmth, their breath–it breaks something open inside me I didn’t know was still locked.
“I’m delighted we’re all t’gether again, though the reason’s a dark one, God help us, ” Ma says, voice shaking with that melodic Irish tilt.
“Us too, Mama,” Selene, Sam, and I echo, voices overlapping.
When we finally untangle, I help Selene to her seat beside Hazel. Sam takes the empty chair beside Alisha. I wiggle my eyebrows at him–you like her–and he rolls his eyes. No confession today, apparently. I’ve been hoping and trying for years.
I settle back beside Brenden just as his hand finds my lap under the table.
Warm, grounding. His touch reminds me of what he told me upstairs–Corver’s update, Natasha, the cold trail.
That he loves me. I can almost feel the storm waiting beyond the walls.
As thrilled as I am I’m equally, if not more so, scared.
Mama’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “How did ye all sleep, then? I know it was’t long ‘nough”
Murmurs all around: Good. Comfy. Dead to the world.
“Perfect,” she says. “If ye need anythin’, ye come t’ me, aye?”
The kitchen staff bring breakfast–Pancakes and eggs sizzle beside rashers and black pudding, bowls of berries gleaming under the morning light, and a loaf of soda bread still warm from the oven.
The smell of strong coffee fills the room, cut with the richer scent of butter melting over hot boxty. It’s calm. It’s peaceful.
But the back of my neck still prickles. Peace never lasts.
Once breakfast clears, everyone drifts off to get ready for the day. Each of us constantly glancing over our shoulders, waiting for the next pang of alarm.
The house hums with movement–laughter in one hallway, footsteps in another–and for a moment, it almost feels like a home instead of a bunker.
Sam offers clothes to the guys since they all seem to share the same giant-gorilla build.
Josh gets a pair of sweats and a faded band tee.
Brenden gets one too— sweats that are a few inches too short and a black t-shirt with Sleep Token across the chest. It’s snug, but I can tell it would normally be loose on Sam.
I blink. “Um. What?”
Sam grins, halfway proud, halfway waiting for the reaction. “What?”
“You like Sleep Token too?” I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. My brother listens to moody indie rock–think Hoozier. Sleep Token is… not that.
“Hell ya,” he says, already energized. “You do too?”
“Of course I do.”
That’s all it takes. In seconds, we’re talking over each other about the newest album, the stage show, the absolute choke hold The Summoning still has on humanity.
How Gethsemane is literally my all-time favorite song.
He’s animated, gesturing with his hands; I haven’t seen him light up like this since before everything went to hell.
Mid-conversation, Brenden squeezes my arm and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Your dad wants to speak with Joshua and me,” he says, his words still clipped in that coded calm he uses when things aren’t quite fine. “I’ll be back soon, Siren. Keep talkin’ to your brother. I won’t be long.”
I nod. He kisses me once more and disappears down the hall. I already miss the heat of him.
Sam and I keep walking toward Selene’s room, our voices trailing through the corridor. The hallway smells like wood polish and sea air. The morning sun cuts through the tall windows, slicing everything into warm gold.
“Selene doesn’t leave her room much,” Sam says quietly. “Still hurts to move some days.”
I nod, the memory of the explosion flashing quickly behind my eyes. “How bad was it?”
He exhales. “Shrapnel hit her side, nicked a few organs. Not bad enough to ruin anything long term, thank God, but she’s still sore. Doctors said she would be for a while, but she’s healing. They got her on a special diet, lots of protein.”
When we reach her door, I knock twice before pushing it open. The sight makes me smile despite everything.
Selene sits curled up in a hanging egg chair identical to the one in my room.
The entire space looks like a cotton-candy planetarium–pink walls, pink bedding, pink fuzzy rug, pink stars painted and stuck to the ceiling that’ll glow softly when the lights go out.
She’s in matching pink pajamas too, holding a book that’s bigger than her head.
Two words: Pink Celestial.
“Whatcha readin’?” I ask, snatching the book gently from her lap while keeping her place with my thumb. I’m not that evil.
She gasps, mock-offended. “Give it back!”
I tilt the cover toward me. “Dragons? Seriously?”
“It’s so good,” she says, sitting up straighter. “A girl goes to a school to ride dragons, and the hot guy has these crazy shadow powers. He’s obsessed with her–in the good way. I’m obsessed with him.”
“Shadows?” I laugh, handing the book back. “Didn’t peg you for fantasy, babe.”
“Ever heard of a shadow daddy?” she teases, eyes glinting. “From the looks of you and all that muscle at the table during breakfast, pretty sure you’d be into it too. That, or reverse harem.” She winks at me, and Sam groans before making mock wretching sounds.
I choke on a laugh. “Oh my God, Selene.”
She grins, but it fades when I really look at her — the circles under her eyes, the dullness around the edges of her smile. I kneel at her feet, leaning against the soft rug, studying her face until she sighs and turns away.
“What’s wrong, babe?” I ask gently.
Sam edges closer, instinctively reading the shift in my tone.
She exhales, long and shaky. “I was so worried, Sissy. And I couldn’t help. I just sat here while everyone else was fighting or running or bleeding. I was… useless. A burden.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
That’s all it takes.
Sam and I both move at once, climbing to our knees and wrapping her tight between us. She cries hard–body-shaking sobs that sound like they’ve been trapped in her ribs for days. There’s nothing to say. We just hold her.
When she finally stills, we stay there a bit longer — three kids tangled on a pink rug, breathing the same broken rhythm.
Eventually, I pull back, wipe my cheeks, and grab her hand. “You’re not a burden, Moon. Not even close. No one could’ve predicted what happened at Brenden’s place. You did what you had to–you survived. That’s enough.” Our childhood nicknames, Sun and Moon popping out. They usually cheer her up.
She nods, her lip trembles. But not this time.
“We probably should’ve come here first,” I admit quietly. “Would’ve been safer. What can they even do to us here?”
Sam looks uneasy but doesn’t answer. The question hangs between us like fog.
Before either of them can speak again, there's a soft knock at the door frame.
Our dad stands there, shoulders squared beneath his charcoal suit, the silver at his temples catching the light.
Brenden looms just behind him, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, his knuckles white around the leather shoulder holster.
Both of them look carved out of steel—Dad weathered and battle-scarred like an old naval destroyer, Brenden polished to a threatening gleam, all sharp edges and cold purpose.
The shift in the air is instant.
Something’s wrong.
The knock on Selene’s door was soft, but it might as well be thunder.
Brenden walks in first, his expression carved from stone. My dad follows, heavier, slower, voice low enough to make the air tremble.
“What. What happened?” My voice sounds too small.
“We just heard from Gavin.” Brenden starts.
The name rips through me like glass. I flinch before I even register it.
“What?” My throat closes around the word. “What happened? I know it’s bad–just say it.” Sam grabs my hand. His palm is hot, grounding.
“He took Bridget,” Brenden says quietly.
The floor tilts. My heart slams once, twice, then starts racing so fast I can’t feel where one beat ends and the next begins.
“What do you mean he took her?” I’m standing before I know it, pacing.
“How–how did he grab her? She had guards. You sent guards, didn’t you?
What do we do? We can’t let him keep her.
He’ll kill her—he’ll kill her, Papa!” My hands find his shoulders before my brain catches up. “Papa, what are we going to do?”
He grips my wrists gently, steady, but his voice carries the weight of too many plans.
“We’ve a plan, mo stór. Bridget knew da risk, tis part o’ da job.
That’s why I called the lads in. We were goin’ over what t’ do if somethin’ like this happened, and right then—” He sighs, the sound of defeat in his lungs.
“Right then, the bastard reached out. We’ve already set things in motion, but I need ye t’ tell me if he tries t’ contact ye.
Everyone else has burners, but ye—ye’re the one he’ll reach for first.”
My hands drop. I can’t feel them. I can’t feel anything.
He wants me to wait. To be bait.
The room folds in on itself. The air thickens, pressing against my chest. I can’t catch a full breath.
Brenden crouches down in front of me. I can see him, his mouth moving, his hand reaching—but the sound—
The sound is gone.
There’s a ringing, high and sharp, filling every space in my skull. My vision tunnels until all I see are the edges of his face and the panic in his eyes.