8. Enya #2
But the feeling doesn't go away, the crawling awareness that I'm being watched, being followed.
He's here. Somewhere. I can feel it.
Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe the message has me seeing threats that don't exist.
But it felt real. Too real.
By the time I reach my building, I'm nearly running. I fumble with my keys, hands shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the right one.
The lock clicks. I shove the door open, stumble inside, and slam it shut behind me.
Deadbolt. Chain. Check them twice.
Then I lean against the door, breathing hard, trying not to cry.
Safe. I'm safe. Warren's safe. We're inside. Locked in. Protected.
But it doesn't feel like enough.
I run up the stairs—can't trust the lift—and unlock my flat. Same routine. Deadbolt. Chain. Check them.
Then straight to Warren's room.
He's playing on the floor with his toy cars, making engine noises. He looks up when I come in and smiles.
"Mam! You're home early."
"Yeah, love." My voice sounds strange. Too high. Too tight. "I finished work early today."
"Can we play?"
"In a bit, yeah? Let me just... let me change first."
I cross the room, crouch down, and pull him into a hug, holding him tighter than I mean to, longer than usual.
He squirms. "Mam, you're squishing me."
"Sorry. Sorry." I let go and press a kiss to his head. "Love you."
"Love you too."
He goes back to his cars, oblivious to the terror clawing at my chest. Oblivious to the danger circling closer.
Good. That's good. He should be oblivious. He should be safe and happy and not carrying the weight of my mistakes.
I move to the window. I can't help myself. I need to check.
The street below is quiet. A few parked cars. A woman walking a dog. Normal.
But my eyes catch on something. A shadow near the corner. It could be nothing. Could be someone standing there.
Watching.
I step back from the window, heart hammering.
It's nothing. Just paranoia. Just fear making me see things that aren't there.
But the message was real.
I'll see you soon.
* * *
I check on Warren one more time before I go to my mam's room. He's fast asleep, curled up with his stuffed dinosaur, face peaceful. Safe.
For now.
I close his door quietly and pad down the hallway. Mam's light is still on. She always stays up late reading or watching those crime shows she loves.
I knock softly. "Mam?"
"Come in, love."
She's propped up in bed, book in her lap, reading glasses perched on her nose. She takes one look at my face and sets the book aside.
"What's wrong?"
I sink onto the edge of her bed, and suddenly I'm five years old again. Small and scared and needing my mam to fix things.
"He texted me today."
Her whole body goes rigid. "Declan?"
I nod.
"What did it say?"
"That he missed me. That I look different. That he'll see me soon." My voice cracks on the last part.
Mam's face drains of color, then floods with anger. "That bastard. After three years, he—" She stops, takes a breath. "Did you save it? We need to show the guards."
"I deleted it. I panicked and just—I deleted it."
"Enya—"
"I know. I know I should've saved it. But I couldn't—I couldn't look at it anymore."
She reaches over and takes my hand, squeezes tight. "It's alright. We'll figure this out. But, love, if he's found you, if he's watching you, we need to tell someone. The guards, at minimum. Get a safety order updated—"
"And say what? That he sent one text? They won't do anything, Mam. You know they won't. Not until he—" I can't finish the sentence.
Not until he does something worse.
We both know how this works. Declan's clever. Always was. He knows exactly how far he can push without crossing legal lines. A text isn't enough. Being in the neighborhood isn't enough.
It's never enough until it's too late.
"What about the club?" Mam asks carefully. "That friend of yours—Ciara's fella. Isn't he part of that motorcycle club?"
"The Fury Vipers. Yeah."
"Could they help? Keep an eye out?"
I think about Tank, about the way he looked at me in the pub today. About last night—his hands, his voice, the way he said my name like it was the only name that mattered.
"There's—there's someone," I admit quietly. "One of the brothers. Tank. We've... it's complicated."
Mam's eyebrows go up. "Complicated how?"
"Just complicated." I can't explain it, can't put into words what happened between us. "He was at the pub today. After I got the text, I think..." I stop. "I think he might've followed me home. To make sure I was safe."
"He followed you?"
"Not in a creepy way. In a..." I search for the word, "protective way. I think."
Mam studies my face, and I can see her working through it. The concern, the curiosity, the maternal instinct to ask a thousand questions I don't have answers to.
"Do you trust him?" she asks finally.
Do I?
I trusted him enough to go to his room. Trusted him enough to let him touch me, hold me, say my name like a prayer. Trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms.
But trust and safety are different things. And bringing Tank into this—letting him know about Declan, about the danger—that's not just trusting him with me. It's trusting him with Warren.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I barely know him, Mam. But he..." My throat tightens. "He makes me feel safe. Which is stupid because I barely know him and I've already been down this road and—"
"Hey." Mam squeezes my hand again. "Listen to me. You're not stupid. You're scared. There's a difference. And if this Tank makes you feel safe, if he's already watching out for you without being asked, that says something."
"It says he's reckless. Getting involved with me when Declan's circling? That's dangerous for him."
"Maybe that's his choice to make."
I shake my head. "I can't—I can't drag someone else into this. I can't risk him getting hurt because of me. I can't risk Warren—" My voice breaks.
Mam pulls me into a hug, and I let her. I let myself be small and scared and held.
"We'll figure it out," she murmurs against my hair. "We always do. But, love, you can't do everything alone. Sometimes asking for help is the strongest thing you can do."
But asking for help means admitting I need it. It means admitting I'm scared. It means letting someone in.
And letting people in is how you get hurt.
* * *
I leave Mam's room eventually, her words still echoing in my head, and make my way back to my own room, closing the door quietly behind me.
The phone's on my nightstand. I stare at it, half-expecting another message. Another threat.
But the screen stays dark.
For now.
I cross to the window. I can't help myself. I need to check one more time.
The street's mostly empty now, dark except for the streetlights casting orange pools on the pavement. A car is parked down the block. Could be anyone.
And near the corner—
A shadow. Or a person. Hard to tell in the darkness.
My chest tightens.
Is someone there? Watching? Or am I imagining it?
The shadow shifts. The shape of a bike, maybe. Or nothing at all. Just my mind playing tricks.
But somehow—impossibly—seeing it there makes me feel calmer.
Which makes no sense. If someone's watching me, I should be terrified.
But part of me wonders. Hopes.
Could it be Tank?
Would he really do that? Sit outside in the cold Dublin night just to make sure I'm safe, without asking for anything in return, without demanding explanations or forcing his way into my mess?
Sometimes asking for help is the strongest thing you can do.
Mam's words circle back.
What if I told him? What if I explained about Declan, about the text, about the fear that's been living under my skin for three years?
What if he could help?
But then I think about Warren. About the life we've built here with Mam. About the fragile peace that one text has already shattered.
If I bring Tank into this—if I let him fight this battle with me—what happens when Declan escalates? Because he will escalate. He always does.
What happens if Tank gets hurt? What happens if Warren gets caught in the crossfire?
I can't risk it.
Can I?
The shadow moves again. Definitely a person. Definitely watching.
My heart hammers against my ribs—fear and something else tangled together. Something I don't want to examine too closely.
Because if that is Tank down there, if he is protecting me without being asked, that means he cares.
Really cares.
And I don't know if I'm strong enough to let him.
I don't know if I'm brave enough to tell him the truth and let him decide if I'm worth the danger.
I close the curtain, step back from the window, and climb into bed fully clothed because I'm too exhausted to change.
And as I lie there in the dark, one question circles endlessly.
Should I tell Tank?
Should I let him in, let him help, let him be what I'm terrified to need?
Or should I handle this alone the way I always have—protecting everyone by keeping them at arm's length, even if it means drowning in fear?
I don't know.
I don't fucking know.
But tomorrow I'll have to decide.
Because Declan's found me. And doing nothing isn't an option anymore.
The only question is whether I'm brave enough to ask for help.
Or foolish enough to believe someone would actually want to give it.