CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KIERAN
I CHUCKLE UNDER my breath as I head to the bathroom. That moment with her near the saw was amusing as hell. When she spun around, there was something there—a split second, brief enough that most wouldn’t have noticed. But I did. Darkness. Dark thoughts. I know that look because it lives in me, too. She thought about it, just for a breath. Maybe hurting me. Or using that saw to make a run for it.
But instead of showing her hand, she lied. “Looking for a hairbrush,” she’d said, her voice just shy of convincing. As if I’m stupid enough to buy that.
In my room, I strip off my clothes, tossing them into a pile on the floor. The air hits my skin, cool and sharp, but I barely feel it. My mind’s still on Hazel, her slight tremble, the way she struggles to meet my gaze. I wonder if she knows how much of herself she gives away when she’s cornered.
I grab fresh clothes from the dresser—black t-shirt, dark jeans, clean socks, everything in its place like a well-rehearsed routine.
The bathroom smells faintly of the blue ray shower gel; she must have used it while bathing. I twist the taps, watching the water rush into the tub, steam curling upward. A shower would be better, quicker, but I haven’t installed it yet. It’s one of those tasks that never made it to the top of my list. Maybe because the time it takes to soak, to scrub the day off my skin, is sometimes the only peace I get.
I lower myself into the water, the heat biting at first before settling into something tolerable. Methodical. I wash with mechanical precision—soap over my arms, chest, neck. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is indulgent, either. There’s no point in luxury when you’ve spent your life clawing through blood and betrayal.
By the time I’m dressed, the clothes fit like armor—clean, pressed, ready for whatever’s next. I scoop up the dirty pile and head downstairs, the stairs creaking faintly under my weight. Hazel’s presence lingers in my mind, her dark thoughts replaying in fragments. She’s dangerous. Maybe not to me, not yet. But she’s got the potential to be just that, and for some reason, that makes me grin.
I don’t stop at the main living room where I told her to dry off at the fire. I left a stack of books to keep her occupied.
In the kitchen, I throw my laundry into the washer before I take out my burner phone and dial Mary; there is no way to trace me; the location will ping at some remote location in the Wicklow mountains. The phone rings twice before she picks up.
“One million euros,” I say.
Mary’s voice is sharp, as expected. “A million euros?”
I lean back against the kitchen counter, which still needs a lot of work; I started the renovations nearly two years ago, but work always pulled me away.
“That’s the price,” I reply, calm and steady.
“How do I know she’s alive?”
“You don’t,” I say. “But you don’t get her back without the money.”
Silence stretches, and I picture her on the other end, weighing her options. “Let me talk to her,” she demands.
“No.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “I’ll send the account details. Once it’s deposited, Hazel will be free.”
I hang up before she can say anything else and do as I’ve just promised, and send her the account details before I power off the phone. For a brief second, I close my eyes and exhale. One step closer. The plan is working. But there are still variables I can’t control.
Like whoever lured Charlie away.
When I walk into the living room, the heat from the fire wraps around me, thick and heavy. Hazel sits curled up in the armchair by the hearth, her legs tucked beneath her. The glow of the fire lights up her flushed cheeks, making her skin look warm and soft, but something about her posture feels...off. She’s not relaxed, not fully. Her shoulders are just a little too stiff, her breathing a little too shallow. I frown as I watch her, trying to figure out what’s different. What’s wrong?
She’s reading a book, the cover worn, the pages creased like it’s been read a hundred times before. But she doesn’t look up when I sit down across from her, and that irritates me more than it should.
What is it about her that’s gnawing at me right now? The longer I look, the more frustrated I feel. She hasn’t changed physically, but something’s shifted. I can feel it like a splinter under my skin, itching, driving me insane.
“Is it a good book?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
She nods, but her gaze stays glued to the pages. She still won’t look at me.
I lean back in the chair, arms draped over the sides, and study her. Her eyes dart across the page, moving too quickly. She’s not reading. Not really. Her fingers are tense where they grip the edges of the book, like it’s a shield she’s using to keep me out.
She doesn’t want to look at me. There’s only one reason for that.
She’s hiding something.
But what?
I let the silence stretch, the only sounds in the room coming from the crackling fire and the soft rustle of the pages as she turns them. I could sit here all day if I needed to. I’ve got patience. I’ve honed it like a weapon over the years, and I’ll use it now to watch her squirm.
“What would you like me to make you for dinner?” I ask, shifting the tone just enough to test her reaction.
Her gaze flicks to me for a fraction of a second, then back down. Brief. Too brief. Bingo. She’s hiding something, and now I’m certain of it.
“I don’t care,” she replies, but her voice is so small, so quiet, she has to clear her throat to steady it.
I almost laugh. She’s making this too easy. But I don’t. Instead, I let the silence settle again, heavy and suffocating, and I just watch her. The tension rolls off her in waves. She knows I’m onto her. Good. Let her feel the weight of that.
I glance toward the fire, giving her just enough space to think she’s gotten away with it. Then, I drop the bait.
“I bought this property five years ago,” I say, like it’s a casual conversation starter. My eyes are on the flames, but I’m aware of her every breath, every twitch. “My hope was to live here with my sister.”
The second the words leave my mouth, her head snaps up, her body shifting like she’s just been shocked. Got her.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and for once, she isn’t trying to look away. She’s curious. Intrigued. Maybe even a little caught off guard. That’s what I wanted. I hold her gaze, letting her fall into the trap I’ve set, knowing that whatever she’s hiding will surface sooner or later. And when it does, I’ll be ready.
“Why didn’t you?” Hazel asks, her voice quiet, tentative.
I lean back, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “My sister didn’t want to live in the mountains,” I say, keeping my tone even. “She was fifteen going on thirty, thought the world revolved around city lights, shopping malls, and her friends. She wanted big-city noise, and this place wasn’t it.”
Hazel nods, her lips pressed together like she’s thinking through my words. “So, you let it fall apart?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I let it crumble for a few years. Didn’t care much about fixing it. But two years ago, I made the choice to rebuild it. Turn it into something that was mine again.”
She watches me carefully, her body unmoving except for the faint rise and fall of her chest. Then, so softly it’s almost a whisper, she says, “Now I know where you live.”
The words hang between us like smoke, curling and suffocating. But it’s not her voice that catches me—it’s the way her green eyes darken, a shadow of fear clouding them. She knows the weight of what she just said. She knows how dangerous that knowledge can be.
“Yes, you do,” I answer, my voice low but firm.
Her lip trembles, and she draws in a shaky breath like she’s trying to suppress a tidal wave of emotions. Tears threaten to spill, but she holds them back, barely.
“I swear,” she says, her voice cracking, “I’ll never tell anyone.”
I scratch my brow, the irritation simmering under my skin. Her promises are worthless to me. Words mean nothing in my world—only actions do. I let my arms drop to my sides and sigh. “A dying man will tell me anything. Do you know how many promises I’ve heard while a man’s bleeding out, begging for mercy?”
Her response comes like a gunshot, sharp and unexpected. “I don’t give a fuck.”
The words hit me, and for a second, I’m caught off guard. Hazel surprises me—a rare feat and not one I take lightly. My gaze sharpens as I study her. There’s fire in her voice, defiance laced with desperation, and it’s strangely impressive.
“I’m not a dying man,” she continues, her voice steady but her eyes glistening. “I’m not part of your world. I’m not a killer, and I don’t deserve to die.”
Her gaze wavers, flickering like a candle about to go out, as if she’s trying to reconcile the unfairness of it all. The weight of the situation is crashing down on her, and I can see her battling it, clawing for some semblance of control.
“I know,” I say, and I mean it. “There’s nothing fair about this.”
That’s the truth. There’s no justice here, no mercy, no happy ending waiting in the wings. This world chews people up and spits them out without a second thought.
Hazel rises, and it’s too fast, too sudden. The chair legs scrape against the floor as she stands, her movements jerky. And that’s when I see it—the glint of metal clutched in her hand.
A screwdriver.
So, that’s what she was hiding.
My lips twitch, not into a smile, but something close. This woman—this firecracker with trembling hands and tear-filled eyes—thought she could outsmart me with a tool that’s barely sharp enough to puncture skin.
But still, I don’t move. Not yet. I want to see what she does next. I want to see how far she’s willing to take this because if there’s one thing I know for sure about Hazel, it’s that her desperation makes her dangerous.
And dangerous can be fun.
Hazel’s grip tightens on the screwdriver, her knuckles whitening as she holds it like a makeshift knife. “You will let me go,” she barks, her voice cracking as a tear slips from the corner of her eye.
I don’t flinch. “I won’t be doing that,” I say calmly, evenly, as if she’s holding a spoon, not a weapon.
“Yes, you will…” Her voice is louder this time, desperate, like she’s trying to convince herself just as much as me. She takes a step closer.
I rise from the chair slowly, my movements deliberate, unshaken. I let the silence stretch, watching her chest rise and fall as her breathing turns erratic. “Or what, Hazel?” I take a step toward her, my gaze locked on hers. “You’re going to hurt me?”
Another step. She falters.
Her hand lowers slightly, the tip of the screwdriver dipping as her confidence cracks. I can see it in her eyes—the war raging inside her. She’s frazzled, unsure if she’s capable of following through. But then I close the gap between us and tower over her. The heat of her body radiates against mine, her breath hitching as she tries to hold her ground.
Her grip tightens again. A last-ditch effort.
“Will you puncture my neck?” I murmur, tilting my head ever so slightly as if offering her a target. “Watch me bleed to death right here in front of you?”
Her face pales. The thought alone is making her sick. I can see it in the way her lips part, in the way her gaze flicks down to my throat and quickly back to my face as if the idea is too much for her.
She wouldn’t have the strength. Not for something like that. She wants to believe she’s capable, but that’s the thing about people like Hazel—they’re driven by emotion, and emotion makes them weak.
“Tell me,” I press, my voice low and steady, “how are you going to kill me?”
“I’m not like you,” she barks, a burst of anger flaring before it fizzles out into something fragile.
She’s bending, like a tree in a storm, swaying, shaking, ready to snap or uproot entirely. I could break her if I wanted to. But I don’t need a broken damsel in front of me, crumbling under the weight of her fear. I need her to hold on to whatever strength she has left.
I reach out and grab her wrist. It’s the first time I’ve touched her, and the heat of her skin catches me off guard. She’s warm. Human. Too human. But I don’t let go. I pull her wrist toward me, dragging the tip of the screwdriver closer to my neck.
Her eyes widen in panic, and she fights against my grip, twisting and pulling. “Stop it!” she shouts, her voice shrill, frantic.
“Why?” I ask, leaning in so close she can probably feel my breath against her cheek. “This is what you want, isn’t it? To hurt me. To escape. Prove to me you’re not just words, Hazel.”
“Stop!” she yells again, her free hand pressing against my chest as if she can push me away. The screwdriver shakes between us, her fingers trembling with effort.
I let her wrist go, and she stumbles back, nearly dropping the screwdriver in the process. Her breath comes in ragged gulps, her hair falling messily across her face as she tries to compose herself.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice soft but sharp enough to cut through her panic. “You’re not like me.”