Chapter 21 Verity
Verity
Every bit of me ached. The doctor Declan sent to examine me said I was extremely lucky I had no injuries other than extensive bruising, but he'd prescribed some heavy-duty painkillers to counter the after-effects of being thrown around like a rag doll.
I still wasn't sure what happened, but I remembered the grinning man pointing a gun at me right before Conal shot him. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw his eyes widen in shock a second before the back of his head exploded.
It wasn't the first time I'd witnessed someone shot, but the experience never got any easier. Blood and death had colored my life from birth, ribbons of scarlet in a sea of gray, with my mother the first victim.
I opened my eyes to see the same familiar room with its tall painted white chest of drawers, antique pine dressing table, and random band tickets and postcards pinned to a corkboard.
This had been my room since I first started spending the holidays with Saoirse at the Kelly estate.
A tray with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies sat on the nightstand. The tea had long-since cooled, so I left it alone. Besides, moving was too much effort.
Instead, I lay motionless, staring up at the ceiling, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars Saoirse and I had stuck up there when we were 14. They still glowed at night, although not as brightly these days. Rather like me.
14-year-old Verity had had hope in her heart.
Back then, I'd cautiously looked forward to the future.
I had believed Thea when she said things would be OK.
And for a while, things were OK. But life and trauma had slowly ground me down until that happy-go-lucky girl had faded away and became a shadow of her former self.
A small moth fluttered around the lamp, attracted to the bright light. Outside, daylight had faded into dusk. The moth beat its wings ineffectually, dashing its small furry body against the fabric shade.
I tried to sit up, hoping to catch it in my hand, but the moment I got close, it fluttered away. The stupid thing had a death wish. If Mrs. O'Mara saw it, she'd grab her trusty insecticide spray and kill it without remorse.
"Pixie," Ronan grumbled from the doorway. "You're supposed to be resting, not catching insects." He stalked over to the bed, frowning at me.
"There's a moth. It needs to go outside before it dies a horrible death at Mrs. O'Mara's hands."
Ronan cupped his much larger hands and waited until the moth fluttered around the light again, scooping it up with ease. I watched as he walked over to the French windows and released it.
For a violent man, he had a surprisingly soft side. I half-smiled as the moth disappeared into the night. When he turned, the sinking sun painted the profile of his face pink-gold, highlighting his slightly crooked nose, sharp jaw, and the way his hair flopped over his eyes.
"I like it when you smile. Tell me what makes you smile, Pixie."
"Stop calling me pixie, for starters." What a dumb nickname. I regretted the day we'd made that stupid TikTok. Honestly, I regretted many things about TikTok, which was why I'd deleted it from my phone. "Where is my phone, anyway?" I'd not seen it since the accident.
"Pixies are cute. Just like you." He flashed me a smile and some of my irritation faded.
As nicknames went, it wasn't the worst one in the world.
Better than 'cunt-face', which had been Anton's pet name for me.
"About your phone." Ronan plucked a brand-new red iPhone from his back pocket.
"Declan wants you to have this. It's all set up for you with your apps, photos, and shit. "
"Oh." I stared at the fancy phone. I kinda liked my old one. The screen had cracked, but it had a cute cat sticker on the back, and nobody would bother stealing it if I went out because it was several generations out of date. "Did my old one get too badly damaged?"
"Yeah."
"Well, thanks, I guess? I could have bought one, though. Thea sent me some money last week."
Ronan shrugged. "Declan has way too much money. Let him spend some of it on you." He watched as I unlocked the phone using my face. Someone must have set it up while I'd passed out earlier.
"It has a new number."
"Wait… why?" There was absolutely no reason for me to need a new number, except… Then the penny dropped. Conal had seen the messages from Anton. He'd stormed off with my phone and made a call.
"What did Conal tell you?" I appreciated their concern, but Anton was in Italy. He couldn't do a damn thing to hurt me other than fuck with my head. Ronan crossed the room and perched on the edge of the mattress.
"Why didn't you tell me about the messages?" Ronan gripped the cover so hard his knuckles turned white, his amiable smile long gone. "If I'd known that asshole was messaging you, I'd have—"
"What? Flown to Italy and beaten the crap out of him?" Violence was Ronan's answer to everything.
"No, I'd have gone there and cut his thumbs off." A feral grin slipped free while I frowned in confusion. "It's hard to text without thumbs." Gross.
"Even harder without hands," I pointed out without thinking.
"I like the way you think, Pixie!" The idiot leaned forward and planted a kiss on my mouth. "Like the way you taste, too."
The sudden sinking of my soft mattress made me wince in pain. The painkillers I'd taken earlier had worn off, but I had an hour to wait before the next dose.
He pulled back. "Are you in pain, Pixie?" Of course he'd taken no notice of my request to stop using the stupid nickname. I almost rolled my eyes, but decided it wasn't worth getting into an argument over.
"A little," I conceded, doing my best not to cry at the stabbing sensation in my back. Swallowing my pain and suffering had become the default from early childhood.
Before I could protest, Ronan scooped me up into his arms, ignoring my pleas that he put me back down.
"I have an idea that might help."
"When was this built?" I stared in wonder through the open doorway at the cedar-clad room with its soothing LED lights. The heat filtering out reminded me of my childhood home. Summers in Sicily could be intense - nothing like Ireland.
"Pa had it built for Ma when she got sick. She used it a few times, then it kinda got forgotten about. I come here when I want to relax." He fiddled with a control panel, raising the temperature.
I had to admit, using the sauna made sense. Heat would definitely help with my aches and pains, and it was a healthier option than popping high-strength painkillers like candy.
"Need help undressing, Pixie?"
I spun around. "Huh?"
Ronan grinned innocently.
"You need to strip down to benefit from the heat.
Underwear is fine. Naked is better." When I said nothing, probably because I had no clue how to respond to his blatant flirtation, he pointed to an adjoining door.
"There's a changing room and shower in there, along with towels.
" Before I could react, he'd pulled his tee off.
I swallowed hard, not knowing where to look. So much sculpted muscle. Dear Lord. The sheer perfection of his body made me feel inferior. How could I possibly compete with the gorgeous girls he'd fucked?
"Be right back," I squeaked, my cheeks on fire. I needed to escape. Go back to my bedroom, lock the door, and pretend he hadn't been about to drop his pants in front of me.
Once in the changing room, I sucked in a few calming breaths.
This was a terrible idea. I was losing my shit, and it had nothing to do with the man shot in the face.
Did that make me a sociopath, or someone immune to violence?
I should text the therapist Declan sent me the number for.
The woman might help me make sense of my fucked-up feelings.
I eyed the stack of thick, fluffy towels. There was time to leave. But did I want to?
The thought of soaking up some fragrant heat felt like heaven. And if I was totally honest with myself, I didn't wholly dislike the idea of seeing Ronan in a small towel. At least I hoped he wore a towel. If I walked in to find him sitting on a bench in the buff, I'd definitely lose my shit.
Before I could over-think it, I stripped off down to my cotton panties and sports bra. No way was I getting naked. Then I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my body, and walked with great trepidation back into the sauna.