Chapter 27
Matteo
The air in my room feels wrong—thick, waiting. Pressure hums against the walls like the world’s holding its breath. Maybe it’s the fourth trial. Maybe it’s something I can’t name. Either way, it tastes like warning.
My knuckles still ache from the last session, but my head is elsewhere, finally not only on her, but on the next: Trial Four.
Leo said he’d come after meeting the others so we could hear the news together.
“Do you think I could make my own blade?” Milo asks, twirling a knife. “A snake-tongue tip split, wicked. Tell me that wouldn’t be insane.” He glances at Marco and me.
“I’m sure Grandfather knows someone to make it,” I reply. I mean that would be a pretty cool knife.
I check my watch. Where the hell is Leo? They already know the trial details so why the delay?
“Make me one too?” Marco asks. Milo opens his mouth to respond, but the door suddenly opens and Leo steps in.
“About fucking time,” I mutter, he flips me of and hands me an envelope.
“Trial of Strategy,” he says, stepping back like the words sting.
Marco leans in as I unfold the parchment and read: “A simulation of decisions, alliances, moves, and countermoves. You may have to work with someone you’d rather gut.” I look up at Leo. “Someone like O’Brien.”
He doesn’t blink. Just a tight nod.
Fuck.
Milo is the first to talk. “So it’s chess. We’re the pawns?”
“No,” I mutter. “We don’t get to be pawns.”
“We’ve always been kings,” Marco adds with a smirk. “So, what’s the plan?”
Leo folds his arms. “It’s not physical. You’ll be paired with him. We all know the history.” His gaze lingers on mine a beat too long.
Does he know about Aoife?
“Navigate alliances, betrayals find your way out,” he continues. “It tests instinct, leadership, trust. First to finish wins.”
“Trust?” I scoff. “In that ring?”
“You’ll need it. Or you lose,” Leo tells me and now I do laugh.
“Trust a fucking O’Brien, Liam’s son? Not happening.” I drop onto the bed and reread the trial, already tasting the urge to put him through a wall.
Leo walks over and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Control the board, Matteo. You don’t need to set fire to every piece.”
I nod once. “Then let’s play.”
I glance at my brothers. If Leo knows, he’s not saying anything. “Matteo, the trial is tomorrow,” he says and leaves the room.
Of course Leo skipped that part. One night to bleed off rage. There aren’t enough nights in the world for how much I hate him.
The conversation hangs in the air, thick with tension and purpose. “I love you, brother, but I know you,” Marco says. “She’s under your skin, and you hate them enough to kill.”
He’s not wrong. Even without Aoife, I wouldn’t last five minutes in a room with him.
“I’m with Marco,” Milo adds. “Out here you’ve got us to pull you off him. In there? It’s just you.” He flips a knife past my shoulder and sidesteps. Fucker. “Not sure you’ll win this one, brother.”
I light a cigarette and stretch out, smoke pooling on the ceiling. I hate it, but they’re right. Maybe this is the trial I fail because working with the enemy feels like swallowing glass.
Rule one: never trust the enemy especially an O’Brien. This might be worse than the silent room.
I exhale, close my eyes, and try to plan the only thing that matters: how not to kill Conor.
“You want to go in the ring, to get some rage out before the trial?” Marco asks. “I mean I won’t let you hit my face, it’s too pretty.” I smile at his comment.
“No.” I draw deep on the cigarette and pull out my phone.
Matteo
You on the roof tonight?
“You sure seeing her before you sit with him is smart?” Milo asks.
“Probably not,” I whisper.
It’s the worst idea, but for some reason, I want to touch her, see her, fucking hell talk to her. Talking about nothing, just being close to her is all I need.
Aoife
You said you’d send me to the slaughterhouse if you kissed me again.
But you didn’t.
I’ve been living in it this whole time.
And the wolves aren’t the monsters.
The lambs are.
My thumb freezes mid-swipe. The words crawl up my spine like ice.
I knew something was wrong.
Matteo
What are you doing, little lamb?
Seconds stretch, as I wait for a reply, fucking anything.
Aoife
You told me to tell you when I’d jump…
My heart stops.
“No.”
“Fuck! NO!”
I’m up before the thought finishes. I snatch my boots, fumbling hard, hands shaking so bad every second slams like a shot to the chest. Too slow. Too late.
“What the hell?” Marco barks, already moving.
“She’s going to jump,” I rasp, the words shred my throat.
“Who?” Milo snaps.
“Aoife. The cliff. She messaged—”
Whatever’s on my face says the rest. Milo sprints. Marco curses and bolts.
“Matteo, you better not be—”
“I’m not.”
I feel it.
In bone. In blood. In every burning breath as we rip down the corridor and crash into night.
The air is knife-cold. Boots hammer slick stone. The sky boils, clouds swollen to break. The storm thrums, a mirror of what’s tearing me open.
Then I see her.
A silhouette cut from the night. Too close to the edge, hair whipped wild, trembling. Not pacing. Not thinking. Just… waiting.
My feet skid.
Time stretches.
Every part of me is screaming, I reach her, but I stop for one breath. One heartbeat.
“Aoife,” I whisper, wind stealing it. Louder, stepping in. “Hey, little lamb… what are we doing?”
Nothing.
No turn. No flinch.
She stands barefoot. Soaked dress clinging. Shoulders shaking, and it isn’t the cold.
My lungs claw for air. I take a step closer to her, an arm distance away from her, but slowly I move closer.
“Aoife, please. Not tonight. We can talk. Just turn around. Come back to me—”
“No.” The voice isn’t hers; it’s what’s left. “I’m property,” she says. “Sold. Price already set.”
“Fuck that, you’re not,” I say, hands up, stepping closer.
“Stay back!” Her voice cracks. Her hand edges behind, flirting with gravity.
My heart seizes. I freeze, not daring to blink.
She turns.
God.
She looks already gone, tear-cut cheeks, trembling mouth, red, emptied eyes.
“I’m done playing,” she chokes. “They’ll kill me anyway after the heir. It’s planned.”
“Aoife, plea—”
“NO!” The wind eats it, but it hits like a shot.
“I can’t have the man I want,” she says, voice in shards. “Loving you will start a war. So why stay?”
“You don’t get to jump,” I say, louder, shaking. “Not on their terms or yours. I’ll carry you through hell if I have to. Just…stay.”
She stares. A ruined smile ghosts her mouth, as she shakes her head. Her foot slips, and she drops.
No thought.
No feeling.
I sprint and dive.
Wind screams.
I catch her wrist a heartbeat before it’s gone.
Her weight yanks my shoulder loose, but I don’t let go. Knees smash rock. One hand claws the cliff, the other vises her wrist.
Muscles burn. Stone bites. Soul splits.
“Look at me, Aoife!”
Her eyes slam into mine.
Terror.
Sorrow.
Defeat.
Makeup washed, mouth shaking, eyes full of hollow rage and shattered hope, like someone who’d welcome the fall.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
“You jump, I fall. You hear me?” I grind out, fingers burning. “We end together or we don’t end.”
Her eyes widen. A breath catches. She reaches back and clamps my wrist.
“I’ve got you,” I rasp. “Always, little lamb.”
Somewhere behind me a shout becomes Marco. A grunt, Milo. Then Marco’s hand clamps my arm, hauling inch by inch.
Milo sprawls, belly to stone, reaching for her. “I’ve got her! Let go when I say—”
“NO!”
“LET GO!”
Every instinct screams, but I release her with one hand and grab the edge with both. My grip slips, Marco snarls and drags me up.
Milo heaves Aoife over as I claw onto the rock beside them.
We collapse, soaked, shaking, wrecked.
I pull Aoife into me as rain knifes down. Her sobs beat my chest, and I fold over her, a shield against wind and sky and anything else that wants her.
I hold on like I might break her, like I might break without her. Her fists knot my shirt.
“Breathe,” I whisper into her hair. “You’re here.”
Thunder tears the clouds; we don’t move.
“I’ve got you, little lamb,” I murmur, kissing her temple. “I’ve fucking got you.”
I’m not letting you go.
The door slams shut behind me as I carry her in, soaked and shivering, cradled like something fragile in my arms. She hasn’t said a word since the cliff.
Her silence screams loud enough.
I don’t let go of her as I head to the bathroom. My fingers won’t unclench from her body even if I tried. I turn the shower on, the hiss of the hot water slicing through the quiet.
She doesn’t protest. She doesn’t look at me. She just… stands there with the warm water hitting her skin.
So, I step in first, pulling her with me, letting the steam rise around us. I remove her clothes then remove my own.
The water is warm, but she’s shaking like it’s ice.
I reach for the shampoo, lathering it in my palms before slowly, carefully massaging it into her hair.
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak, just lets me take over.
Her head tips forward, her breath uneven.
I rinse the suds from her hair, slowly. Not for pleasure. For comfort. For care. For her.
She’s raw. Broken. And I clean her like she’s something holy.
Then she falls.
Sobbing. Raw, animal sounds that crack open in my chest. I drop to my knees with her, wrapping my arms around her slick, trembling body and burying my face into her soaked hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve fucking got you.”
Her hands curl into my chest like she’s drowning and I’m the only air she’ll ever breathe. The water drums down around us, washing away the blood, the storm.
I stay there until her sobs dull into small hiccups, until her body begins to loosen just slightly in my arms.
Then, gently, I help her out.
I towel her off slowly, like I’m afraid she’ll break again if I move too fast. I slide my sweatshirt over her head, the sleeves falling past her wrists. I grab a pair of my shorts and help her step into them.
I put my own clothes on, and I pick her up again. She’s weightless again. Hollow.