Chapter 39
CHAPTER 39
DAMIEN
I t looked like it was snowing.
Smoke and ash and bits of plaster floated down from the sky in slow motion as I ran toward the rubble that, just seconds ago, had felt like an oasis of hope. The building moaned in agony as structures cracked and broke off, shattering on the jagged debris below. And something inside of me shut off. It was as if all access to my emotions had been severed. Logic. Sensory input. Alertness. Planning. That was all that was left. A machine on a mission.
The side of the building closest to me had been destroyed, but the far side was still intact, as well as the main entrance. The only people streaming out of the hospital were in uniform, which meant that the patients were most likely on lockdown. And because Clo wasn’t among them, it meant that she was either trapped in the rubble or she was trapped inside a padded cell with this Eamonn fucker.
Grabbing every shell-shocked arsehole I could get my hands on, I asked each one if they’d seen a pretty redhead looking for Eamonn O’Toole. I was met with blank stares or tears or slack-jawed head shaking, but one employee, a middle-aged woman with deep hollows under her eyes, simply lifted a finger and pointed behind me.
I turned my head, expecting to see Clo’s big green eyes shimmering with relief as she came bounding toward me, but instead, I found myself staring at a mountain of rubble being torn apart by a dozen frantic people wearing hospital uniforms.
Adrenaline exploded through my bloodstream as I descended on that fucking hellscape like a man possessed. I didn’t feel the strain of my muscles as I yanked chunks of metal and concrete and wood the size of cars off the pile. Didn’t feel the burning of my lungs or the slicing of my hands as I tossed granite bricks over my shoulder by the dozens. But when I broke through the exterior debris and found a pocket of air under a hospital bed, I felt every sensation in my body all at once.
Excruciating pain.
Paralyzing panic.
Blinding terror.
Murderous rage.
Because lying in a heap, covered in ash and bricks and crumbled plaster, was the body of a woman with long auburn hair.
Wearing a black flight jacket.
I pulled her from the wreckage as gently as I could and ran straight back to Heuston Station with her limp body cradled in my arms. I didn’t check to see if she was alive or dead. I didn’t even look at her face. I couldn’t.
I was just going to hold her until she woke up.
Because she was going to wake up.
She fucking had to wake up.
I knew every soldier on that island was probably looking for a couple matching our description, but with both of us caked in white plaster dust, I was willing to risk being seen by the soldiers at Heuston Station. I was willing to do anything to get Clover the fuck off that island.
But just in case, I entered through the opposite side of the building. My hunch paid off. There were no soldiers on that side, and I nearly wept as I stepped through the free-spinning turnstile and carried Clo’s limp body to the westbound platform.
Where a digital sign showed that the next train was twenty-eight minutes away.
Fuck.
There was an empty bench, but I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t stand. All I could do was pace and hyperventilate and listen for any signs of life.
Because I couldn’t fucking bring myself to look.
Twenty-seven minutes.
If her heart was beating, if she was breathing, if she was cold, I couldn’t feel it through Kellen’s jacket. I couldn’t fucking feel it. And that was what scared me the most.
Twenty-six.
My pacing grew faster, my steps larger, my turns sharper. A few of the St. Patrick’s staff members joined me on the platform. But they didn’t pace. They simply stood and stared at nothing, their shock as potent as my agony.
Twenty—
“Damien?”
My feet became rooted to the spot as I held my breath and listened.
“Damien, I’m so dizzy.”
Falling to my knees, I sat Clover on the platform, holding her up in case she was weak, and forced myself to finally look at her.
My heart thundered in my ears louder than the squeals of the southbound train as I brushed the plaster and ash-covered hair away from her face. And there, staring back at me, was the living, breathing embodiment of perfection. A few more cuts, a few new bruises, but that’s part of what made her so magical. Clover was a fucking survivor.
“Hi, angel.” I forced a smile, cupping her dust-covered face in my bleeding hands. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my neck. “There are some nurses here. Does anything hurt?”
Clo touched a gash on her forehead with a wince before her eyes suddenly went wide. “Damien, I know who killed us! You’re never gonna believe it! It was—”
“Shh … I know,” I stated, taking her ice-cold hands in mine.
Her face fell, eyebrows furrowed.
“What?” She shook her head. “You know?”
I nodded.
“Saoirse.”
I nodded again. “I’m so fucking sorry, Clo. I should have told you. I just … didn’t want it to be true.” I kissed her knuckles as I prepared myself to admit what I’d been running from.
“It’s all my fault. All of it—our deaths, my mother’s death, your family’s deaths, this entire fucking war. If I’d been stronger, if I’d slit his fucking throat when I had the chance instead of killing myself out of grief, none of this would have happened.”
Clover opened her mouth to argue with me, but I lifted a bloody fingertip to silence her.
“I was planning on running from him again, finding a place to hide again , but that was what I had done last time, Clo, and it didn’t fucking work. I’d still lost you, and when I found your body in that rubble just now …” I shook my head, trying to forget the way her limp body had felt in my arms. “I have to do things differently this time. Like you said in your letter, I have to set things right.”
“But … how?” Clover asked, clasping my raised hand in both of hers.
“By killing Alexi Abramov.”
She coughed. “That’s … that’s impossible. He’s all the way in Russia. No one can get anywhere near him.”
“I can.”
“Damien, just because you’re in the military—”
“Not because I’m in the military.” I sighed. “Because I’m his son.”