Chapter 29
Oisín
A few days pass before I start moving through the clubhouse like a person instead of evidence.
At first, that’s what it feels like: evidence of Canon’s failure, Saint’s rage, and the Rogue alliance collapsing into blood and consequences.
Men look at me, then look away too quickly, as if the bruises on my face might accuse them of something if they stare long enough.
The swelling around my eye has gone down enough that I can see clearly again, though the skin is still tender, fading from deep purple into a green-yellow shade that looks worse than the original damage.
The stitches along my forearm pull when I turn too fast, and my ribs ache with every breath that goes deeper than careful.
Harlan says healing isn’t pretty, which is a useless thing to say to a man who has to watch himself become a map of what happened.
The clubhouse doesn’t know what to do with me either.
Before, suspicion had a shape. Men wondered whether I was Canon’s son first and Saint’s husband second, whether the ring on my finger made me protected or dangerous, whether my quiet meant harmless or watchful.
Now conversations cut off when I enter a room before someone remembers I’m allowed to hear them.
A prospect I don’t know by name nearly drops a crate of beer when I pass him in the hall, then mutters, “Sorry, Oisín,” with the panic of a man who has been told my name matters.
Pike gives me updates without making me ask.
Moth sends files directly to the bedroom with notes in his precise, nearly illegible handwriting, as if clean columns and corrected route overlays can pull the world back into order.
The worst part is that nothing really stops. Maybe that’s good or maybe I’m just worried about being forgotten. Conversations about lingering Rogue members being picked up hit my ears, the chaotic aftermath of a club falling apart continuing as I heal.
I should have known that it wouldn’t have stopped at whoever had taken me, that Obsidian would need to obliterate whoever was left but it still hurts a little.
I don’t ask for details unless someone brings them to me.
Part of me wants every name, every place, every consequence.
Another part of me can still see the laptop screen Canon forced in front of my face, grainy headlights and moving shadows, Rogues crouched in the dark because pain pulled old information out of my mouth.
Other mornings, I wake with my body trying to twist against restraints that aren’t there, and Saint is always in the room when that happens.
He barely sleeps now, if what he does can be called sleeping.
Mostly he sits in the chair beside the bed until his body loses whatever argument his mind is having with it, then wakes the second my breathing changes.
Everything with him has changed too, mostly for the better.
Saint’s softer around me, but he’s also more hesitant to touch me, which might be the strangest part.
Saint, who used to solve almost everything with a hand on the back of my neck, now stops himself so sharply I can feel it in the space between us.
His hand hovers near my shoulder, near my hair, near the blanket over my waist, and then he waits, until I nod or shift closer or say his name in a way he understands.
It’s painful to watch, not because I want him to stop trying. I don’t. But Saint doing careful is like watching a wolf try to carry glass in its teeth. He means it, and a few days ago I might have found the effort satisfying. Now it mostly makes my chest ache because I selfishly need more.
After dinner on the third night, I’m still in the main room when Saint stands before I can gather my plate.
He doesn’t announce what he’s doing or make a performance of it.
He just reaches across me, careful not to brush my ribs, and takes the plate, fork, glass, and crumpled napkin I’ve been pretending I’m not too tired to deal with.
Demo is across from me, halfway through some story about a prospect locking himself in the back freezer, his voice trailing off when Saint carries everything to the bar without being asked.
Men who have watched Saint put bullets in people for less than a wrong look now watch him set my plate beside the sink and stack the fork on top of it like he’s not entirely sure where dishes go when they stop being useful.
Tally looks up from the bar, her mouth twitching, but she’s smart enough not to make it worse.
“Thank you, Saint,” she muses.
Saint gives her one flat look. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
Demo picks his story back up too quickly, his eyes fixed hard on Pike like eye contact with Saint might get him killed. “So anyway, Kip’s yelling that the freezer door is jammed, right, except it turns out it wasn’t jammed. He was pulling instead of pushing.”
Pike exhales through his nose. “That boy’s going to die before patching in.”
“Probably,” Demo says. “But he’ll be cold first.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, one hand going to my ribs when the movement pulls at the skin.
Saint’s attention snaps back to me at once.
He’s beside me in the next breath, close enough that I feel the heat of him at my shoulder.
His hand lifts toward my back, pauses, then lowers to the chair instead.
“I’m fine,” I say quietly.
The muscles in his jaw pull tight as he resists the urge to touch me. “You always say that when you’re lying.”
“I’m sitting down.”
“That’s not a medical condition.”
“It might be the closest I get today.”
Something almost like amusement touches his face, but it doesn’t last. His eyes move over me the way they’ve been doing for days, checking for pain he can’t fix and damage he can’t threaten into healing.
Then he steps back because he’s learning that hovering and helping aren’t always the same thing, and the fact that I can see him force himself to do it makes me realize how much he truly wants this, wants us.
Later, when the room thins and Saint gets pulled into the hallway by Moth with a file in hand, Bricks takes the empty chair beside me like he’s been waiting for the opening.
He drops into it with a grunt, sets his beer on the table, and angles himself toward me with that particular expression that means he’s about to say something he knows he shouldn’t enjoy as much as he does.
“He’s whipped,” Bricks says.
I look at my water glass instead of him. “You’re very invested in that theory.” Bricks has only mentioned it three times in the last 24 hours, though I stopped listening after the first one.
“It’s not a theory. I’ve seen men whipped before. Usually they buy flowers or start lying about liking brunch. Saint Masters cleaned up after dinner and didn’t even shoot anybody for noticing.”
“That’s your evidence?”
“That’s my opening statement.” Bricks takes a drink, then points the bottle toward the hallway Saint disappeared down.
“The man has been walking around this place like somebody handed him a bomb with feelings. He doesn’t know whether to hold it, apologize to it, or kill everyone else in the room for making it tick. ”
Despite myself, my mouth curves into a smile. “That’s an awful way to describe it but he’s trying.”
“Yeah,” Bricks says, quieter now. “That’s the part that matters.”
I look at Bricks, noticing he isn’t smiling as much anymore.
There’s still humor at the edges of him because I’m not sure he knows how to stand anywhere without it, but something steadier sits under it.
He watches the hallway for a moment before looking back at me.
“He’s got something to lose now,” he says.
“About time somebody made him act like he knows it.”
“He scares me sometimes,” I say.
Bricks doesn’t pretend not to understand. “Good.” My brows furrow with confusion as he continues. “He should,” Bricks says, leaning back. “Saint scares everybody with sense. Difference is, he’s starting to scare himself too, and that might be the first useful thing fear’s ever done for him.”
Before I can answer, Saint comes back through the doorway with the file still in his hand and his attention already on me. His gaze moves from my face to the hand pressed against my ribs, then to Bricks, then to the beer on the table. He’s close enough to have heard at least some of it.
Bricks lifts the bottle. “We’re talking about you.”
“I gathered.”
“You going to deny it?”
Saint looks at him for a long second. Then his eyes shift to me, and whatever he sees there makes his face settle into something quiet and unreadable. “No.”
Bricks’ eyebrows rise with obvious delight. “Well, fuck me. Progress.”
Saint ignores him and steps closer to my chair. “You’re done for the night.”
“I’m not a meeting. You can't just tell me I'm done.”
“No,” he says, glancing at the way I’m sitting too carefully. “You’re worse. You argue.”
“I need to get to bed.”
“I’ll get Tally.”
I catch his wrist before he can turn, Saint halting immediately. Everything in the clubroom goes quiet again, Bricks suddenly finding the label on his beer fascinating. Saint looks down at my hand around his wrist like he’s already bracing himself for what I’m about to ask.
“I was talking to you, Saint.” I tilt my head to the side, immensely enjoying the shock on his face. “I’m tired, Saint. I hurt. And I’m asking you to help me to bed.”
Saint just stares at me for several seconds before setting the file on the table, turning his wrist until my hand slides into his, and stepping close enough for me to use him.
“All right,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’ll know.”
His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He slides one arm behind my back and waits until I shift my weight into him before helping me stand. It hurts anyway. My ribs protest, my stitches pull, and for one second the room dips at the edges.
“I’ve got you, Sín,” he whispers.
Bricks doesn’t say anything as we pass him, which might be the first true act of mercy I’ve seen from him.
The walk down the hall takes longer than it should.
Saint moves at my pace, even when impatience pulls at his body.
Every few steps, his fingers flex against my side like he wants to lift me and be done with the slow, painful process of letting me manage my own feet. Instead, he lets me lean on him.
Saint helps me sit first, then crouches to pull off my shoes with the same careful focus he gave the dishes, only this doesn’t make me want to laugh.
“You don’t have to do all that,” I tease. “I just didn’t want to be sitting up anymore."
He looks up from where he’s loosening the second shoe. “I know.”
He stands, waiting while I shift back against the pillows. I can tell he expects me to lie down and dismiss him to the chair, where he’s been spending most nights pretending not to sleep. Instead, I reach for him again.
Saint looks at my hand. “What do you need?”
“You.”
His face goes still. I don’t give him time to turn that into something complicated. I curl my fingers around his wrist and tug. “Come here.”
Saint sits on the edge of the mattress, his eyes searching my face for the catch.
Before, our room had rules he understood too well.
Bed meant heat, control, my body going soft under his hands until both of us had somewhere to put the things we didn’t say.
Now the heat is still there, but it’s quieter, threaded through with bruises and exhaustion and the strange ache of wanting something gentle from a man who’s learning gentleness like it’s a foreign language.
“I’m not asking for that,” I say.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes lift to mine. “I’m trying to.”
I shift carefully, making space for him and then pat the bedding. “Lie down,” I tell him. When he doesn’t move, I just sigh. “Saint.”
His jaw tightens as his eyes flick between the space I made for him and my face. “You’re hurt.”
“So are you because you never let Harlan look at you properly.” A chuckle forms on my lips as his face contorts.
I just reach for him again and this time he comes, lowering himself onto the mattress with careful, awkward obedience.
I shift him into the position I need, Saint facing away from me as I curve myself around his back.
My ribs pull, and I have to pause with my forehead nearly against his shoulder, breathing through the sharp little burst of pain.
“Sín.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I’m handling it.”
He softens a fraction as my hands wander to settle across his stomach. Saint gently places his hands over mine, threading our fingers together. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mumbles.
His voice is low enough that I could pretend not to hear it if I wanted to spare him. “I know,” I push out, keeping my cheek against his back. “But you are doing it.”
His fingers tighten carefully around mine. “Feels like I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s the point.” I squeeze my fingers around his. “I never meant you to stop touching me altogether. I just wanted you to mean it.” I press a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.
Saint lifts one of my hands from his stomach and pulls it to his lips, pressing soft kisses to my palms. “It feels like I’m starving for something, Sín. For you, for this.”
It’s almost a confession, a step in the right direction. In time, I know we’ll get there. The silence stretches around us, full of everything else unsaid, and for the first time, it feels like there might be enough room for all of it.