CHAPTER FOUR
KIERAN
SHE STILL GRIPS the candlestick; her gaze darts around the darkened space. I told her I wouldn’t hurt her—that was just to stop her from screaming. The reality is, I need to end this now.
I slip the gun out of my jacket pocket, and her eyes grow wide. Her fingers loosen their hold on the candlestick, and it hits the floor with a heavy thud.
“Get on your knees.” My voice is calm. It’s easier this way, less blood splatter if she isn’t standing. I have the silencer on.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Her words are as erratic as her breathing. She hasn’t followed my instructions. She’s still standing there, staring at me, looking like she might throw up.
“Hazel,” I say her name calmly, as though her behavior is nothing but dramatic, and all she needs to do is follow my simple instructions to end this nightmare. “Get on your knees.”
A sound close to a whimper escapes her chest. Her eyes, magnified by her glasses, appear even larger. Fuck. She looks so young.
I hold the gun steady, its weight familiar in my hand, but my target isn’t what I expected. Human behavior fascinates me in moments like this. There are three types of people: those who fight—it makes the kill easier. Those who beg for their lives—I expect that, and it doesn’t bother me. And then, the worst ones: the ones who accept it.
Hazel lowers herself to a kneeling position and stares at me, her chin tilted up, her eyes locked on mine. Slowly, she removes her glasses and places them on the floor. As she does, all the fear drains from her gaze.
“I hope you rot in Hell,” she says, her words seething through clenched lips. Tears stream down her face, soaking into her skin.
It unsettles me. For the first time in years, my finger hesitates on the trigger.
“I’m sure there’s a spot reserved for me,” I reply truthfully. No crime goes unpaid, and the cost is always blood and pain.
The sharp buzz of a phone breaks the silence, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from Hazel’s pocket. The screen lights up the inside of her jacket.
“Take it out. Slowly.”
She frowns, not seeming to understand.
“The phone ringing in your pocket—take it out slowly.” I keep my words calm and low.
Her hands shake as she pulls it from her pocket, her movements stiff. The screen lights up with a name—Mary.
“Who’s Mary?” I don’t want anyone arriving for a few hours. I assumed no one would. I need time to clean up.
“A friend. I promised to call her back,” she says, her voice tight. Too tight. I hold out my hand for the device, and she hands it over without a fight.
“What were you calling her for?” My voice is low, steady, almost trusting.
Her gaze darts to the floor, and straight away, I know the next words out of her mouth will be a lie.
“Just having a chat.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you.” I step closer. “Try again.”
Her shoulders slump, and she exhales shakily.
“I told her I was being followed. She said I should call her back.”
“What’s her full name? Where does she live?”
She frowns again, but the fear has returned to her gaze. This time, it’s not fear for herself but for her friend. She glances at the gun.
“She’s not in Ireland,” she blurts out.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
Hazel looks up at me, tears making her gaze waver.
“Mary Walsh, and she lives in France.” Her words come out almost angry, like the thought of her friend in France has hurt her. But the name is what really catches my attention—Walsh. My grip on the gun tightens instinctively, but my focus shifts.
“Mary Walsh,” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. “And you’re her friend?”
Hazel nods. “She’s my best friend.”
She’s also in France, so there’s no chance of her arriving here. But I also know one of the Walshes’ wives moved to France not long ago after a threat on her life had her husband sending her away.
The connection is too significant to ignore. Mary Walsh. The gun in my hand suddenly feels heavier, my decision more complicated. Killing Hazel is what I have been ordered to do, but keeping her alive, though? That opens new doors, doors that have never been opened before.
I lower the gun, the motion deliberate and slow.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t dare speak.
“You’re my leverage now,” I say, the words falling cold and sharp between us. “Congratulations, Hazel. You’re my captive.”
She flinches, the fire in her gaze sparking again. “What—”
“You will be calm and do everything I say.”
Her mouth opens to speak, but I hold up two fingers. “This isn’t up for debate.”
I tell myself this is strategy. That it’s about gaining an edge over the Walsh family. But deep down, there’s something else clawing at me—an unfamiliar sense of guilt, protectiveness even. I shove it down where it belongs.
Hazel doesn’t cower. She doesn’t beg. But she doesn’t quite meet my eyes either. Instead, she stands there, shoulders stiff, chin raised, though the sharp edge of her defiance wavers just enough to show the cracks beneath. Her breathing is uneven, and her fingers twitch at her sides like she doesn’t know whether to clench them into fists or let them tremble.
It’s maddening, this mix of fear and resolve. My instincts scream to snuff it out—to make her submission total—but there’s a part of me, buried deep, that can’t help but respect her for holding onto even a sliver of that fight, yet not using it even though she’s clearly struggling with the thought.
I turn my back on her, taking a few steps to gather my thoughts, each step deliberate. I’m letting the room breathe, letting Hazel have a moment to attack me. Nothing happens. I face her again, and she’s no longer looking at me but glancing around the space. She might be looking for a weapon. Her gaze lands on the brass candlestick before she looks up at me.
I grin. Knowing exactly what she is thinking of doing. “Do it,” I say.
She ignores the weapon and squares her shoulder. “I saw nothing,” she says through trembling lips.
I take a step toward her. “That’s your first mistake, Hazel. Telling your captor that you witnessed nothing when I never accused you of witnessing anything. But you’re like a child who says they didn’t break something, knowing there is something broken in the house.”
She grits her teeth. “Do you have children?”
“No.” Killing her would be easy. Clean. But keeping her alive might be smarter. She’s a bargaining chip, a thread I can pull to unravel the Walshes if needed. Alive, she’s useful. Dead, she’s just another problem to clean up.
Her glare isn’t quite as sharp as before—it’s more like a shield now, fragile and trembling. She doesn’t speak, but her body language says enough. She’s scared. She just won’t let it show.
“Pack light,” I say, breaking the silence. “We’re leaving.”
Her brow furrows. “What?” she snaps, but her voice cracks at the end. “You’re taking me somewhere now?”
“Yes,” I answer evenly, ignoring the shake in her tone. “And you’re going to make it look like you left on your own. No one will think you were taken. It buys us time.”
She doesn’t move right away. Her jaw tightens, and her eyes dart to the door, then back to me. I can almost see the battle raging in her mind—fight or flight; once again, she picks the third option.
“I’m not leaving my home. I won’t help you make it look like I left on my own accord.”
I exhale through my nose and slip the gun that I’m still holding into my pocket. “I didn’t peg you as someone who would be lippy.”
“You don’t know me.” She growls.
I fight a grin. Clearly. But, I don’t have time for games.
“Pack light. Now.”
Finally, she swallows hard and turns toward a door. I’m on her heels as she enters a small bedroom. Her movements are slow and jerky. She pulls open a drawer and starts throwing clothes into a bag, but her hands tremble so badly she fumbles with the zipper. Her frustration is palpable, and when she finally gets it closed, her knuckles are white from the effort.
I toss her the phone, and she catches it in surprise. “Call Mary. Tell her everything’s fine. That you’ll be in touch in a few days.”
She clutches the phone to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Her eyes flick to mine, wide and uncertain. “And if I don’t?” Her voice is small, quiet, but there’s a hint of defiance buried beneath the fear.
I step closer, letting the weight of my presence fill the space between us. “You don’t want to find out,” I say, my voice low, deliberate. She holds my gaze, searching for any crack in my resolve, but she won’t find one.
After what feels like an eternity, she nods, her fingers trembling as she dials. “Hi, Mary,” she says, her voice wavering. She clears her throat, trying to steady it. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just the power is still out, so I’m going to stay with friends that seem to still have power...” She glances at me, and I make a circular motion with my finger for her to hurry up.
“I have to go, but I’ll ring you in a few days.” Another pause. “Love you, too.” Hazel closes her eyes as she says it, and tears stream silently down her face.
She hangs up and wipes her eyes.
“Where are your car keys?” I ask.
She grips her back and jerks her chin to the kitchen. “On the kitchen counter.”
I open one arm, “Lead the way.”
She passes me with stiff shoulders but grabs the keys off the counter. I hold out my hand, and she drops the keys into them. “And the phone.” I keep my hand open, and she hesitates for a moment before giving me her phone, too.
We move down the small hallway, and I glance into the sitting room where a candle is burning.
“Blow out the candle,” I tell her. “No loose ends.”
Her gaze flicks to the flickering flame, then back to me. I can see her hesitation—one last thread of rebellion, one last moment to defy me. But she exhales sharply and enters the room before she snuffs it out with a shaky hand.
When she steps toward the door, her dog, a border collie, lets out a low bark from the corner of the room. Hazel freezes, glancing back at the animal. For a second, I think she might argue—might refuse to leave without it. Before she can speak, I cut her off. “We’re taking it.”
Her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she moves to the dog, scooping it up and holding it close. The relief on her face is fleeting, but it’s there.
“Let’s go,” I say, opening the door to the cold night beyond. The wind bites at my face as I step outside, the dog’s quiet whine cutting through the silence. Hazel follows, clutching the animal like it’s the only thing tethering her to sanity.
As we approach her car, I unlock it with a press of the keys. “You’re driving,” I say, holding the door open for her. She hesitates, her gaze darting from me to the road, but eventually, she nods and places the dog in the back before she slides into the driver’s seat.
I glance at her as I take the passenger side. Her defiance hasn’t disappeared—it’s still there, flickering beneath the surface—but fear has dimmed it. For now, that’s enough.