15. Tank
TANK
I wake to gray Dublin light filtering through thin curtains and the immediate, overwhelming awareness of where I am.
Enya's bed.
Enya's flat.
Enya pressed against my side, one arm draped across my chest, breathing soft and even in sleep.
For a second, I just lie there, heart pounding, mind trying to process what happened last night.
She let me in. Really let me in. Not just physically—though Christ, that was... I can't even put words to what that was—but emotionally. She trusted me with her fear, her trauma, her body. Trusted me not to hurt her the way he did.
And now she's here, warm and safe and sleeping like she hasn't slept in months.
I'm fucked.
Completely, utterly fucked.
Because I care about her. More than I should. More than I know how to handle.
And the thought of anything happening to her, of Declan getting anywhere near her, makes me want to burn the world down.
I turn my head slightly, careful not to wake her, and just look at her for a minute. Blonde hair spread across the pillow. Face relaxed in a way I've never seen it. No tension. No fear. Just peace.
She's beautiful like this.
My chest aches.
I could get used to this. Waking up next to her. Watching her sleep. Being the reason she feels safe enough to let her guard down.
But I can't think about that right now. Can't let myself want things that might not be possible.
Not until Declan's dealt with.
Not until she's truly safe.
She stirs slightly, makes a small sound, and her eyes flutter open. For a second, she's disoriented. Then she sees me and something shifts in her expression.
Vulnerability. Embarrassment. Something softer underneath.
"Morning," I say quietly.
"Morning." Her voice is rough with sleep. She starts to pull away, create distance, but I tighten my arm around her gently.
"Don't," I say. "Not yet."
She hesitates, then settles back against me, head on my chest. "This is weird."
"What is?"
"Waking up with someone. Being... this."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"I don't know yet."
I run my fingers through her hair, gentle and slow. "Take your time figuring it out."
We lie there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just breathing.
Then she says quietly, "I slept better last night than I have in months."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She traces a pattern on my chest with one finger. "Usually I wake up every hour. Check the locks. Check the windows. I can't settle."
"But you did last night."
"Because you were here."
The words hit harder than they should. They make my chest tight and warm at the same time.
"I'm glad," I say simply.
She lifts her head and looks at me. "What does this mean? Us. Last night."
I brush a strand of hair back from her face. "I'm not going anywhere, Enya. Whether this is just last night or something more, I'm here."
She studies my face, looking for lies or cracks or reasons not to believe me. She won't find any.
Finally, she nods. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." She sits up, pulling the sheet with her. "I need coffee. Do you want coffee?"
"Yeah. I'll make it."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I swing out of bed and pull on my jeans. "Where is everything?"
She directs me from the bedroom, and I make my way to the kitchen. Small. Tidy. Everything in its place. I find mugs, the kettle, instant coffee. I make it strong and black because I don't know how she takes hers and I'm not asking from the other room.
By the time she emerges wearing leggings and my shirt that I left in her room, I’m leaning against the counter with two steaming mugs.
She takes one, sips, makes a face. "Christ, Devin, how much did you put in here?"
"Enough to wake you up."
"Enough to kill me, more like." But she's smiling.
I grin. "Noted. Less coffee next time."
"Next time," she repeats quietly, like she's testing the words.
"Yeah. Next time."
We move to the sitting room and settle on the couch, close but not touching. Just existing in the same space.
Her phone buzzes on the coffee table. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.
Enya goes rigid, every muscle in her body tensing.
I notice. I can't not notice. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Just..." She reaches for the phone, glances at the screen, then sets it back down face down. "Group chats—always going mental on the weekends."
She's lying. I know she's lying. I can see it in the way her jaw's tight, the way her hand shakes slightly when she picks up her coffee mug.
But I don't push. Not yet.
The phone buzzes again. She flinches.
"Enya—"
"It's nothing. Just spam probably."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure." But her voice is too bright, too forced.
I let it drop. For now.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking terrible coffee, both of us pretending everything's normal.
"I hate that I'm relieved Warren’s not here. What kind of mother is relieved her kid's gone?"
"The kind who's trying to keep him safe. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Feels wrong. Feels like I'm failing him."
"You're not failing anyone." I set my mug down, turn to face her. "You left an abusive relationship. Built a life for you and your son. Kept him safe for years. You're not failing. You're surviving. There's a difference."
She looks at me, eyes shining. "He's in my head again. Declan. Just like before. Watching. Waiting. Making me second-guess everything."
"I know."
"I hate it. Hate that he still has this power over me."
"He doesn't have power. He just has the proximity. And we're going to fix that."
"How? How do you fix someone who's always watching?"
"By making sure he can't watch anymore."
She goes quiet. Processing. Then… "What does that mean?"
"It means you're not facing this alone. It means I've got brothers helping. It means we're watching him now, not just the other way around."
"Devin—"
"I'm not letting him near you, Enya. Or Warren. Or your mam. I promise."
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she moves closer, curls into my side, and lets me wrap my arm around her.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispers.
"Do what?"
"Trust someone. Let someone help. Be..." She stops. "Be with someone."
"You don't have to know. Just let it happen."
We sit like that for a while. Her head on my shoulder. My hand in her hair. Just breathing.
Then she says quietly, "I slept better with you here."
"I know. You said."
"I mean it. I didn't realize how exhausted I was until I actually slept through most of the night."
"You're safe with me."
"I know." She lifts her head and looks at me. "That's what scares me."
Before I can respond, before I can ask what she means, there's a knock at the door.
Sharp. Deliberate. Three times.
Enya goes rigid in my arms, every muscle locking up. Her breathing stops then comes back fast and shallow.
"Enya—"
"That's how he knocks." Her voice is barely a whisper. Strangled. "Exactly like that. Three times, hard, like he's announcing himself. Like he wants me to know it's him."
My blood runs cold. Rage floods through me, hot and immediate.
"Stay here."
"Devin, don't—"
"Stay behind me."
I stand and move toward the door. Enya's right behind me, shaking so hard I can hear her teeth chattering.
"Devin, please…”
"I'm just looking. I'm not opening it."
I peer through the peephole. Nothing. No one in the hallway. Just empty corridor and harsh fluorescent lighting.
But there's something on the floor. A folded piece of paper, white against the worn carpet. Slid under the door.
Fuck.
My hands curl into fists, every instinct screaming to rip the door open and chase whoever was just here. But I can't leave her. Can't risk it.
I open the door carefully, checking the hallway again. Left. Right. Both ways clear. Still empty.
Whoever was here is gone.
I pick up the paper and unfold it with hands that want to shake but won't. Can't show fear. Can't let him win.
Handwritten. Block letters. Deliberate. Three words.
I SEE YOU.
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate and barely controlled. My hands shake as I stare at the note, vision narrowing, pulse pounding in my ears.
He was here. Just now. Outside her door. Close enough to slide this under. Close enough to knock. Close enough to hurt her if he'd wanted to.
Close enough.
"What is it?" Enya's voice behind me. Small. Scared. Breaking.
I turn, and she sees my face. Sees whatever expression I'm wearing. Sees the note in my hand.
Her face goes white.
"Let me see it."
“Enya—”
"Let me see it." Her voice is stronger now, demanding. "I need to see it."
I hand it over. Watch her read it. Watch the color drain completely from her face. Watch her legs start to give out.
I catch her before she falls and pull her against me, one arm around her waist, the other cradling her head against my chest.
"Breathe," I say quietly, steadily. "Just breathe."
But she can't. She's shaking, her whole body trembling violently, and gasping for air like she's drowning.
"He was here," she chokes out. "He was right outside. Right there. He could’ve…he could’ve…”
"But he didn't. You're safe. I'm here."
"He knows where I live. He knows what door. He knows…”
"Enya. Look at me."
She does, eyes wide and terrified and lost.
"You're safe. Right now, in this moment, you're safe. I've got you. I'm not letting go."
She nods shakily, but she's still gasping, still shaking, still somewhere else in her head where I can't reach her.
"Come on." I guide her to the couch, sit her down, and kneel in front of her. "Five things you can see. Tell me,” I say, remembering the talk we had last night in bed when she told me what her therapist gets her to do when she feels the panic rising, when everything starts to feel like it’s caving in.
“What…”
"Five things you can see. Right now."
She blinks. Focuses. "The... the coffee table. Your face. The window. My phone. The..." She stops. Breathes. "The lamp."
"Good. Four things you can touch."
She reaches out shakily. Touches my hand. The couch cushion. Her own knee. The throw blanket.
"Three things you can hear."
"Your voice. The radiator. Traffic outside."
"Good. You're doing good. Two things you can smell."
"Coffee. Your... your cologne or aftershave or whatever."
"One thing you can taste."
"The coffee. Still in my mouth. Too strong."
She laughs, weak and broken but real, then presses her face into her hands and breaks.
Not crying. Just shaking, like her body's releasing tension it's been holding for too long.
I sit beside her and pull her against me, one hand on her back, the other in her hair, keeping her grounded. Keeping her here.
"I need to make a call," I say quietly. "Can you sit here for a minute? Or go take a shower? Something to calm down?"
"Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving. Just stepping into the hall for one minute. I'll be right back. I promise."
She nods slowly, pulls away, and wraps her arms around herself like she's trying to hold the pieces together.
"Go sit down," I say gently. "Or lie down. Whatever you need. I'll be right back."
She moves to the couch, curls into the corner, and makes herself small. Scared.
I step into the hallway, pull out my phone, and call Rush.
He answers on the second ring. "Yeah?"
"Declan left a note under her door. While we were inside."
Silence. Then: “What'd it say?"
"I see you."
"Fuck." I hear movement on his end and then voices. "Where are you now?"
"Her flat. She's inside. She’s safe for now."
"How's she doing?"
"Terrified. Shaking. Full panic attack."
"And you?"
"Ready to kill him."
"Yeah. Figured." More movement. "Alright, listen, we're mobilizing. Raptor, Preacher, Cowboy. Few others. We'll find this fuck and end it. Tonight."
"I want to be there when you do."
"Figured you would. I'll text you when we have something. In the meantime, stay with her. Keep her calm. Don't let her do anything stupid like try to run."
"She won't run. She's too scared to move."
"Good. Keep her safe and still."
"Rush—"
"We'll handle it, brother. I promise. This ends tonight."
I hang up and stand there for a second, forcing myself to calm down. To breathe. To think clearly.
Declan Fahy is a dead man. He just doesn't know it yet.
I go back inside. Lock the door. Double-check it. Then move to the couch where Enya's still curled up, shaking.
I sit beside her, and she immediately curls into me, face pressed against my chest, hands fisting in my shirt, holding on like I'm the only thing keeping her upright.
"I can't do this again," she whispers. "I can't go through this again. The watching. The waiting. The fear. I can't."
"You won't have to."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." I tilt her face up gently, making sure she's looking at me. "Because I'm not letting him get to you. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. He's not touching you."
"Devin—"
"I mean it, Enya. He's done. Finished. Over. He just doesn't know it yet."
She stares at me, searching for lies, for cracks, for reasons not to believe me.
She won't find any.
"Okay," she whispers finally, voice small but steady.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I believe you."
I pull her close again. Let her press against me. Let her take what she needs. Let her shake and breathe and slowly, slowly calm down.
And I make a silent vow.
Declan Fahy dies soon.
By my hands.
And nothing, not the club, not the gardaí, not God himself, is going to stop me.