CHAPTER FIVE
LUNA
I CAN’T brEATHE. My chest tightens as though a vice is squeezing me, and the air feels too thick to pull into my lungs. My hands are trembling, my thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief, and something darker, something I’m afraid to name. He did that. He really did that.
Cian leans forward, his sharp gaze pinned on me. His voice is low, calm, like this is just another night for him. “I was sitting here the whole time with you,” he says. “I never moved.”
I nod, my head bobbing like it’s not even mine. It’s a lie—of course, it’s a lie. But a part of me, the part that isn’t screaming in terror, feels…relieved. What’s wrong with me? What kind of person feels glad that their boyfriend is dead?
“Luna.” His voice is softer now, a coaxing murmur. “It’s time to go.”
My eyes drop to his hand as he reaches for mine. The sleeve of his shirt—it’s dark, but not dark enough to hide the spots of red splashed across it. Blood. That’s blood. My stomach churns, but I don’t pull away. I don’t scream or cry, or do any of the things I should be doing. Instead, I let him take my hand, his fingers warm and steady around mine, and guide me to his car.
The door shuts with a muffled thunk, and I sink into the seat, staring straight ahead. The leather smells expensive, and it’s eerily quiet like the car itself is complicit in keeping secrets. Cian pulls out his phone, the glow of the screen lighting his face in sharp angles. He’s making a call, his voice low and clipped, but I can’t focus on the words. They blur together, like static, and all I can hear is the bang of the gun. Over and over, it echoes in my mind. Is Mark really dead?
“Luna.” Cian’s voice slices through the fog, sharp and clear this time. I blink and look up. He’s watching me again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…there’s something fierce in them, something that holds me captive.
“You can’t go home,” he says, and just like that, the weight of it all crashes down on me. This isn’t a bad dream I’ll wake up from. This is real.
“You killed him,” I whisper, the words tasting foreign on my tongue.
“Yes.” No hesitation. No remorse. Just that one word, delivered like it’s a simple fact. Like it’s nothing.
The car ride blurs after that. When I come back to myself, I’m standing in his house—his massive, immaculate house that smells like leather and wood polish. My legs feel shaky as he guides me upstairs to a sitting room. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls, and Cian moves with a quiet confidence, pouring a drink into a heavy crystal glass.
“Here,” he says, pressing it into my hand. “Sip.”
I don’t argue. I lift the glass to my lips, the burn of the alcohol grounding me for a moment. When I lower it, he’s kneeling in front of me, so close I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
His hands rest lightly on his thighs, but his gaze is locked on mine, intense and unrelenting. “You’re safe,” he says softly, like he knows exactly what I need to hear. “I’ll handle everything.”
Safe. That word echoes in my mind, tangling with the other thoughts swirling around. I should feel anything but safe with him. But I can’t take my eyes off him.
What is wrong with me?
I sit on the worn leather couch, the sting of alcohol still on my tongue. My hand trembles, the glass almost empty, as if nearly finishing it could erase what I just saw. Cian leans against the table, his dark brown eyes studying me, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. His laughter is light, almost boyish, and for a moment, it’s hard to believe he’s capable of…that.
But I know what I saw.
“Take another sip,” he says, his tone low, steady. “It’ll help with the shock.”
The shock. As if alcohol can mend the crack running through my mind. I empty the glass anyway, feeling the burn sear down my throat. He smiles—not mockingly, but with some quiet understanding, like he’s done this before. Maybe he has.
He takes the glass from me and rises to refill it, moving with a calmness that feels at odds with everything that just happened. “Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. It’s not the first question I should ask, but it spills out anyway.
His back is to me as he pours, and his shoulders rise and fall in what might be a shrug. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”
The weight in his voice doesn’t invite more questions, but I can’t stop myself. “He wasn’t always cruel.” The words slip out, quieter than before. I barely hear myself, but Cian does.
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, his gaze softer now, less dangerous.
“When he found me years ago, I was homeless.” My voice breaks, and I hate how it makes me feel weak. “He took me in.”
Cian hands me the refilled glass, his fingers brushing mine. He doesn’t say anything right away; he just sinks back into the couch beside me. Too close. His presence is overwhelming, larger than life, but I don’t feel afraid. Not of him.
“How did it start?” he asks, his tone gentler now, coaxing.
I hesitate, the words caught somewhere between my chest and throat. But I nod, taking another sip to steady myself. “Small things,” I begin. “Telling me where I could go. Then what to wear.” My face heats, shame bubbling up. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
Cian’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening, but he stays silent. Waiting.
“When did the hitting start?”
My breath catches, and I look down at the glass in my hands, watching the liquid tremble. “The first time was when I was still a nurse,” I admit, the memory surfacing like a cold wave. “A male friend dropped me home after a late shift. He was convinced I’d cheated. I hadn’t.” The knot in my throat tightens, but I push the words out. “After that, he wouldn’t let me go back to my job.”
I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping. “Things just got worse.”
Cian doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence stretches, heavy. Then he asks the question I’ve heard a hundred times before, the one that makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
I force myself to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes aren’t judging me—they’re steady, patient, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from me.
“Because I had nowhere to go.”
The confession hangs between us, raw and unfiltered. Cian doesn’t look away. He doesn’t flinch or offer false comforts. He just stays there, grounding me, his presence a steady pulse in the chaos.
“I think something is wrong with me,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. Maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s all the alcohol—or maybe it’s the fact that I’m confessing to someone who can kill so easily. I’m not sure what makes me say it.
Cian’s eyes flick to mine, sharp but not unkind. “Why?”
I hesitate, the truth clawing its way to the surface. “Because I have the urge to thank you… when I should be horrified.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and twisted, and my gaze drops to the table. My voice feels distant, like I’m watching myself from the outside. What’s wrong with me?
“You can thank me,” Cian says, his tone low, almost a growl that reverberates in my chest.
I blink, startled by his response, but the words slip out anyway. “Thank you.”
I frown as I speak, hating the way it feels. Knowing how messed up it is. My stomach knots, but Cian’s grin only widens, sharp and wolfish, like he’s amused by my conflict.
“You’re very welcome,” he says smoothly.
His grin fades, his expression darkening as he leans forward slightly. “Has anyone else ever hurt you?”
The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, my mind flashes to my parents. The fights, the neglect, the chaos of growing up in a house ruled by addiction. But they weren’t cruel, not intentionally. They weren’t like him . Would Cian even understand? Or would he see their failures as unforgivable and add their names to his list?
I shake my head, deciding some truths are better left buried.
Cian narrows his eyes, studying me like he’s searching for cracks in my answer, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts gears, his voice calm and commanding. “You’ll stay here for a few days.”
He’d said this earlier, but it hadn’t fully registered. Now it feels final, like a door quietly locking behind me.
“Won’t someone be looking for me?” I ask, setting the second empty glass on the table. My head feels light, the alcohol a warm, numbing fog, but my stomach twists with unease.
Cian picks up my glass, his movements measured, almost too casual. “Like who?”
The question stops me cold. I don’t have an answer, not a real one. The truth is, no one’s been looking out for me in a long time. But the Gardai—that’s what they’re supposed to do, isn’t it?
“Like the Gardai,” I say, the words trembling out. The moment they leave my lips, my stomach churns, regret pooling deep in my gut.
Cian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even hesitate. “They won’t be looking for you.”
His calm certainty makes my skin prickle. “How do you know that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, I don’t think he’ll answer.
Then he does.
“Because we own the Gardai.”
His words slam into me, a cold, undeniable truth delivered without an ounce of apology. My pulse quickens, and my head spins—not from the alcohol this time, but from the realization of just how far his reach extends.
And yet, against all reason, I don’t feel fear. What I feel is something much worse.
Relief.