CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HAZEL
KIERAN LOOKS LIKE someone who’s stepped straight out of a war zone—a blood-soaked soldier returned from battle. The thick streaks of crimson on his face and chest have me frozen, my breath hitching in my throat. I don’t even realize I’m asking him what happened until the words leave me in a shaky whisper.
He doesn’t answer. The knife in his hand is still dripping, and it’s his eyes—wild and manic—that pin me in place. One wrong move, and he might use that blade on me.
I swallow hard and repeat myself, my voice quieter now. “Kieran. What happened?”
No response.
He spins on his heel and tears through the house like he’s searching for something—or someone. I follow, but I keep my distance, my heart drumming erratically. My footsteps are featherlight compared to his thunderous strides. When he reaches the last room, he finally stops, breath heaving as he wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand. The smeared mess only makes him look more dangerous, like a man too far gone.
“Kieran,” I say softly, my voice barely above a breath.
He turns sharply, like he’s just now realizing I’m here. His eyes latch onto mine, and I can’t tell what I see—regret? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s too much. This isn’t him. Not the Kieran I know.
“What happened?” My voice cracks, betraying the tears threatening to spill over.
“Two men were outside,” he finally says, voice rough, as if dragged through gravel. “They were here for you.”
My stomach churns. “Who are they?” I whisper. Are they more of Patrick’s men?
“I don’t know.” His jaw clenches, and his gaze shifts briefly to the blood on the knife. “But I need you to stay here.”
Stay here while he disposes of more bodies.
He strides toward me but stops just short, the tension in the air thick enough to suffocate us both. “I thought they were in here with you.” His eyes roam my face, and for the first time, I see it—worry. It’s there in the tightness of his lips and the faint crinkles near the corners of his eyes. He was worried about me.
I never thought that would be possible.
A droplet of blood splatters onto the floor, and my gaze drops to his arm. There’s a gash running along his forearm, blood trickling steadily from the wound.
“You’re hurt,” I say, my voice soft.
He glances at the injury and dismisses it with a shrug, as if it’s nothing more than a scratch. “Stay in the house.”
I nod, but he’s already turning away, a man on a mission. The back door closes behind him with a heavy thud, and I’m left standing there, the silence pressing in around me.
I spend the next few minutes cleaning up the blood trails, my hands trembling as I scrub the floor. Charlie, my loyal shadow, stays by my side, his small whines filling the otherwise quiet house. I try not to think about what Kieran’s doing out there—disposing of two bodies. I had heard the gunshots earlier, sharp cracks that shattered the night. Charlie had sensed something, too. He’d whined at the door, pacing restlessly, then collapsing in the hall until Kieran finally returned.
I had hidden in the living room, heart pounding in my chest, hoping the noise was nothing more than Kieran outside. But when I heard movement in the hall, I’d crept out, hoping it was Kieran.
It was. Only, he wasn’t the man I was expecting.
He had grabbed me, pinned me against the wall, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. The primal intensity in his eyes had been terrifying—a man teetering on the edge of madness. And now, even as I scrub the floor, I can still feel the ghost of his grip on me.
I glance at the window. Rain pelts the glass in steady waves, blurring the view outside. I can’t see him from this angle, and the waiting is unbearable. The unknown gnaws at my nerves, leaving me restless.
Where is he? What’s he doing now?
I press my forehead against the cold glass, breathing in deeply to steady myself. But it doesn’t help. The fear is still there, gnawing away like a parasite.
A thought enters my mind, sharp and intrusive. He’s busy burying them. I could run. He might not even notice I’m gone.
I turn away from the window, my feet carrying me to the front door before I realize I’m even moving. I stop and stare at the door, my heart thudding. I could leave. I could find a way home.
But then what?
The realization hits me like a slap. Patrick is sending men to kill me. If I go home, I’ll be easy prey. They’ll find me before I even get a chance to breathe.
The hysterical laugh that bubbles up gets caught in my throat. The safest place for me is with Kieran. The man who just killed two people. How the hell did this become my reality?
I can’t bear the thoughts swirling in my mind, so I grab the first aid kit and wait by the back door, my fingers gripping the handle tighter than necessary. The minutes stretch like hours, but eventually, Kieran returns.
He’s soaked through, rainwater dripping from his hair and trailing down his face. His clothes are streaked with mud and dirt, but there’s something in his gaze that looks…different.
Hope.
He holds up his hand, and between his thumb and forefinger is a tiny chip, no bigger than a SIM card.
“What is it?” I ask, stepping back as he kicks the door shut behind him, sealing off the rain. Small puddles form at his feet, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“It might give us answers,” he says, “about who these people are.”
He strides to the drawer and starts rummaging. I step closer, catching a glimpse of what’s inside—several unopened boxes, all containing brand-new phones. He grabs one, tears it open, and pulls out the phone with practiced ease.
I don’t say anything as he works, sliding the chip into place. Every few seconds, he wipes the rain from his face, the droplets sliding down his jaw and onto the floor. His fingers are steady, but his lips press into a thin line, frustration already brewing.
When the screen finally lights up, he curses under his breath. “It’s encrypted,” he says, his voice rough.
“I know someone who might help,” Kieran says, already reaching for another phone from the drawer. His fingers leave wet streaks of water and blood on the sleek surface.
I step closer, gently touching his arm to get his attention. “Let’s clean you up first, Kieran,” I say, pulling a small towel from the counter and handing it to him.
For a moment, he just stares at me, his gaze unreadable, as if he’s searching for something on my face. I’m not sure what he finds, but eventually, he nods and takes the towel, running it across his face and neck.
The rain had already washed away most of the blood, leaving pale streaks over his skin, but his arm was still a mess. The gash isn’t long—shorter than I originally thought—but the steady stream of blood is alarming. How much has he lost?
“Can I take a look at your arm?” I ask softly.
He drops the towel onto the counter, and for a second, I think he’s going to refuse. Instead, his shoulders drop slightly, like he’s letting the tension leak out. “What I said about Charlie,” he starts, his voice low and rough, “I shouldn’t have—”
My stomach twists. I don’t want to hear where this is going. Not yet. “You can talk while I do your arm.”
I hate watching the blood drip, leaving dark crimson pools on the floor and table. I need to stop it before any more life drains out of him.
He exhales, and for once, it sounds less like frustration and more like defeat. Without another word, he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs. His muscles stay tense, like he’s ready to spring up again at the slightest sound.
I pull a chair beside him, so close that I can smell the storm clinging to his skin—the sharp, earthy scent of rain mixed with dirt and coppery blood. The air feels heavy, intimate.
I bring the first aid kit closer, opening it with shaky fingers, and glance up, only to find him watching me intently. His gaze is dark, piercing, as if I’m the only thing anchoring him right now.
“Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re worried about me,” I say, attempting a smile to lighten the tension.
He doesn’t laugh. His lips twitch slightly, but the intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver. “I was,” he murmurs, the admission slipping from him so quietly I almost miss it.
My hands pause over the kit, fingers trembling just enough to betray how much that confession hits me.
“Kieran,” I breathe, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t,” he says. “Just fix my arm.”
I swallow hard, biting back the emotions that try to surface. Right now, I can’t afford to think about what he just said or what it means. I grab the antiseptic wipes and press one gently to the wound.
He hisses but doesn’t pull away. His gaze stays locked on me, and I wonder if he’s using the pain as a distraction from everything else swirling inside him. I know I am.
“You scared me,” I whisper, not looking up.
He shifts slightly, and I feel the weight of his eyes soften. “I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did,” I say, dabbing at the wound with as much care as possible. “When you came through that door, I thought—”
“I’d hurt you,” he finishes for me, his voice thick.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The truth is, I had thought exactly that. For a split second, I saw him as the monster he so often pretends to be. But now, sitting here with him, watching him bleed and breathe regret, I see the man underneath—the one who doesn’t want to be a monster.
“I wouldn’t,” he says firmly, breaking the silence. “Not you.”
The weight of his words settle over me, and for the first time tonight, I let myself believe him.
Even sitting here with him, I’m struck by how much bigger he is—his frame dwarfing mine, his presence filling the space between us like gravity.
I press the gauze gently against his arm, trying to keep the pressure steady. “Did someone cut you?” I ask softly.
“No,” he replies, his voice low and rough. “That was a bullet.”
I freeze. My fingers stop moving, and I blink at him, unsure if I heard correctly. “You were shot?” My voice rises with panic. “Kieran, do you need a hospital? We can go—I promise I won’t say anything. I can pretend I’m just your friend or something.”
The words tumble out faster than I can stop them, and before I realize it, he’s smiling. A real, genuine smile that stretches across his face and does funny things to my stomach.
“Now you’re scaring me,” he says, the amusement lingering in his eyes.
My breath catches. “Why?” I ask, a little breathless.
“You sound like you care,” he replies smoothly.
I stare at him, my throat tightening with words I can’t say. I do care. But it’s more complicated than that. I care because he’s the one keeping me alive. I care because when he looks at me, I’m not sure if I’m terrified or comforted—or both.
“Finish my arm,” he murmurs, the smile fading into something softer, something I can’t quite name.
Grateful for the distraction, I focus on cleaning the wound again. The blood is slowing now, and I gently unwrap more supplies from the first aid kit, trying to push my racing thoughts to the back of my mind.
“The apartment we grew up in,” he says after a moment, his voice distant. “There was a lady next door. Old, with two cats. She never let them inside, so she left food for them in bowls in the hallway.”
I glance up briefly, but his gaze isn’t on me. It’s somewhere far away, like he’s reliving a memory he doesn’t share often.
“One day, I was out trying to steal food for me and my sister,” he continues, his voice thickening slightly. “When I got back, I found her—Saoirse—eating from one of the cat bowls.”
My breath hitches, horror tearing through me like a knife. I can’t imagine how hungry someone would have to be to do that.
“I knew then,” Kieran says, his jaw tightening, “that I’d do anything to never see her small frame hunched over a bowl of cat food again.”
I nod, trying to understand the weight of what he’s telling me, but it’s hard. That kind of hunger, that level of desperation—it’s unimaginable, and the thought of it makes my chest ache. I wrap the bandage around his arm carefully, making sure it’s snug but not too tight.
As I secure the final knot, his free hand rests on my thigh. The warmth of his touch startles me at first, but I don’t pull away. I like it. I like the weight of his hand on me, grounding me, making me feel like maybe I’m not as alone as I think.
“You remind me of her,” he says quietly.
I try to brush off the comment, to deflect the strange warmth that blossoms in my chest. “You see me as a sister,” I say, but the words come out flat, deflated. My heart sinks, though I’m not sure why.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I peek up at him, my breath hitching when I see the way he tilts his head, studying me like he’s about to correct me.
“I most certainly don’t see you as my sister,” he says, his voice low and laced with something that makes my cheeks heat instantly. “That would be criminal.”
I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming in my ears. His gaze lingers on me, and I feel like I’m on the edge of something dangerous. Something I’m not sure I can survive.
“I want to protect you,” he adds, his voice softer now. “Like I’ve always protected her.”
Something inside me locks into place, like a broken part of me has been snapped back together. I don’t know what it is—maybe the way he said it, or the way he looks at me like he means it—but it’s enough to make me feel...safe. Safe, even when I know I shouldn’t be.