CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KIERAN
DINNER IS QUIET. Too quiet. The clink of silverware scraping porcelain is the only sound filling the dining room, and even that’s faint, sporadic. Hazel sits across from me, her fork dragging lazily across the plate, slicing through a piece of chicken she has no intention of eating.
She stabs it, lifts it halfway, then drops it back down as if the effort to bring it to her lips is too much. Her shoulders are tense, her gaze lowered to the table, and she’s been sitting like this for the past ten minutes. I lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest, eyes locked on her while she pretends I’m not here.
She’s quiet again. Not that Hazel’s a chatterbox, but this is different. Usually, she’ll glance at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She’ll bite her lip, huff under her breath, push buttons just to see which ones will make me snap. But right now, she’s in her own world, and that annoys me more than I expected.
She twirls a piece of food around the plate again, then sets the fork down, pushing her chair back without a word. The scrape of the legs against the floor grates on my nerves.
“You’re not eating?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
She stops halfway to the door, her fingers curling into fists at her sides before she lets out a soft breath. “I’m not hungry.”
I could call her out on the lie, but I don’t. I don’t even stop her from leaving the room. The door clicks softly behind her, and I’m left staring at the mess she made of her dinner. The food she barely touched, and the glass of water was still full.
I drum my fingers on the table, thinking about that kiss. The kiss that’s been on replay in my head since it happened. I told her I did it to calm her down, to stop her from spiraling, but that was only half the truth. I kissed her because I wanted to. Because for a moment, the tension between us felt unbearable, and taking what I wanted felt easier than ignoring it.
The problem is, it worked too well. Now she’s calm. Too calm. And I hate it.
The next day, Hazel spends her time with Charlie. I watch them as I pass the living room and make my way to one of the rooms that I haven’t started yet. I need to fill my time as I wait for Mary’s deposit which hasn’t happened yet. I turn on the saw and the noise is a comfort I didn’t think I needed. Haze’s silence is like a slow, constant itch I can’t scratch.
Her subdued silence stretches into the afternoon, bleeding into the evening. Even when she passes by the room I’m working in, her gaze doesn’t meet mine. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t challenge me like she normally would. I should be relieved. This is what I wanted, right?
By the time the sun starts to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows through the windows, her quietness feels like a weight pressing down on my chest. I’m not used to this version of Hazel. The one who keeps everything bottled up, tucked away where I can’t reach. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I even want to reach her—or if I should leave her exactly like this.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and toss the rag onto the workbench.
My fingers twitch, and I almost call out her name, but I stop myself. Instead, I grab a bottle of water and lean against the doorway, watching the last bit of sunlight disappear behind the mountains.
I kissed her because I wanted to. That fact isn’t going anywhere. What I’m trying to figure out is what the hell I’m supposed to do with it now.
I run a hand through my hair, the edges of my control sharp and jagged, before my other phone buzzes in my pocket. When I see the name on the screen, my heartbeat slows to a controlled rhythm. It’s Lee—one of Patrick’s men. A man I’ve known for years. Trustworthy enough, for now.
“Lee,” I say.
He doesn’t waste time. “You’re in trouble.”
The corners of my mouth twitch, but I keep my voice neutral. “Am I?”
“Patrick’s getting suspicious,” Lee continues. “There’s a ransom out for Hazel, and he’s starting to put pieces together. You know how he is. He smells something’s off.”
Good. Let him.
“I’m out here looking for her,” I say, feeding him the bait. “She’s somewhere in the Wicklow Mountains, from what I can tell. Someone’s hiding her.”
There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough for Lee to absorb the information. “Do you think someone went rogue?”
“It’s possible,” I say carefully. I let the thought settle before adding, “Anyone missing on your end?”
Lee doesn’t answer right away. “Sean,” he finally says. “He’s been off the radar for a few days.”
My fingers drum lightly against the counter. Perfect. The seed is planted. Let them think Sean betrayed Patrick.
I lower my voice, making it sound like I’m just thinking out loud. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sean saw an opportunity and took it. The ransom fits his style, doesn’t it?”
Lee doesn’t respond, but I know the damage is done. He’ll report back to Patrick. The suspicion will grow.
“If you find Hazel,” Lee says, “you know what Patrick expects.”
“Of course,” I lie smoothly. “I’ll find her and kill her.”
I end the call and set the phone on the counter, my mind already moving to the next step.
I rub the back of my neck, pushing off the doorway as the last sliver of sunlight vanishes.
I'm not killing her. I’ve known that for a while, but admitting it, even in my head, feels like setting off a fuse. This was supposed to be simple. She’s leverage, a means to an end. A loose end to tie off when everything’s finished. But that plan unraveled the second she saved me from the crumbling ledge, maybe even before that. Maybe the moment she started getting under my skin without trying.
I cross the room, pacing past the workbench, my boots heavy against the wooden floor. I’m not the kind of man who second-guesses his decisions. I make them, execute them, move on. But Hazel? She’s forcing me to rethink everything.
Patrick will expect her gone when the time comes. He’ll expect blood—her blood. That’s what I signed up for, what I agreed to when I took her in. But there’s a loophole, a lifeline I’ve been holding on to.
Mary.
Hazel used to mean something to her. They were friends once. They still are, in whatever twisted way women like them hold on to each other. If Mary wants Hazel back, Patrick will listen. He always listens to his sons, and Mary is married to one of them.
That’s my first move. My safest play. Let Mary be the one to decide Hazel’s fate. If Hazel survives, it won’t be my decision—it’ll be Mary’s. And if Patrick doesn’t bend?
Then I’ll convince him myself.
The thought makes my jaw tighten. I shouldn’t have to interfere. I shouldn’t want to. But I do. The idea of Hazel dying, her body lying cold and forgotten, is like a stone lodged in my chest.
I hear footsteps on the stairs—light, hesitant. It’s Hazel. She’s probably heading to her room to lock herself away for the night. It would be easy to let her go, to let the silence between us stretch until morning, but something about this moment feels heavier than usual.
I step into the hall just as she rounds the corner. She freezes when she sees me, her hand resting against the wall like she’s bracing herself for something. Maybe she is.
We stand there, facing each other. Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but no sound comes out.
I should tell her. Not about everything—not yet. But something. Just enough to keep her from fading further into herself.
“You’ve been quiet,” I say, my voice low. “All day.”
Her eyes flicker, the faintest spark of defiance returning for a second before it dies. “Just tired,” she says.
Liar. I know tired when I see it. This isn’t that. This is something else.
I step closer, closing the distance between us. “Hazel, I don’t need you to like me. I don’t need you to talk to me. But I do need you to stop acting like you’re already dead.”
Her breath hitches, and she turns her head, avoiding my gaze. “And if I am?” she whispers. “If I’m already as good as dead, what difference does it make?”
The words hit harder than I expect, and for a second, I don’t know how to respond. She’s scared. Not of me—but of what’s coming. She thinks this ends with her six feet under, forgotten and discarded, and she’s trying to make peace with it before it happens.
I swallow hard, my hand flexing at my side. “It makes a difference,” I say quietly. “More than you think.”
Her eyes meet mine, searching, but I don’t give her more than that. Not yet. She doesn’t need the full picture—just enough to keep her fighting. If Mary doesn’t intervene, I’ll find a way to fix this myself. Hazel isn’t dying, not while I’m breathing.
She watches me for another second, then nods, the movement small, almost reluctant. Without a word, she continues up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps fading along the landing.
I stay rooted in place, my pulse drumming against my ribs. This isn’t just about the kiss. It’s about everything. Hazel wasn’t supposed to matter. She wasn’t supposed to complicate my life, and she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to make me feel like protecting her was my responsibility.
But here I am. And I’m not letting her die.