Chapter 8 #2
The words hit like a physical blow. Love... Christ, is that what this is? This constant ache in my chest when she's not around? This need to protect her, to make her smile, to be worthy of the trust she's too scared to give?
"I don't know what I'm feeling," I admit.
"Fair enough. But whatever it is, you need to decide if it's worth dying for. Because that's what we're talking about here. Life and death, not some romantic comedy where everything works out in the end."
True. Our world doesn't have happy endings, just temporary truces between wars.
"She's not just the job anymore," I say quietly.
"I figured as much."
"And I don't know what the fuck to do about it."
Stephen stubs out his cigarette and turns to face me fully. "Want some advice from someone who's been there?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Stop fighting it. Stop pretending you don't care. Accept that you're invested and plan accordingly."
"Plan how?"
"By making sure she survives this war. By making sure Trace Harrington never gets the chance to hurt her. By finishing this job so you can find out if what you're feeling is real or just adrenaline."
Makes sense. I can't build anything with her while Trace is still breathing, still planning whatever twisted revenge he's got in mind.
"And if she doesn't want anything to do with me after this is over?"
"Then at least you'll know. At least you won't spend the rest of your life wondering what if."
We start walking back toward shore, toward the real world where decisions have consequences and emotions are luxuries most of us can't afford.
"What time's the meet?" I ask.
"Eight tomorrow night. Warehouse at the docks. We'll have backup."
"You're coming?" I ask, knowing that he doesn't like to be away from Jessica for too long.
"Wouldn't miss it. I’ve been waiting months for a shot at Trace."
We reach Stephen's car, a black BMW. He pauses with his hand on the door handle.
"Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens with the girl, whatever you decide... I've got your back. We're brothers, blood or no blood. That doesn't change because you've gone soft over a pretty face."
Simple words, but they carry weight. In a world where loyalty is currency and betrayal is death, having someone you can trust completely is rarer than diamonds.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. Save it for when this is all over and we're still breathing."
He drives away, leaving me alone on Dublin's waterfront. Alone with my thoughts, my doubts, my growing certainty that I'm in deeper than I meant to be.
Time to see Alastríona. Time to make sure she's safe, that whatever Trace is planning hasn't already started.
Time to figure out if what I feel for her is worth the risk.
* * *
I find her in Henry's garden, sitting on a stone bench beside a fountain that's too flashy for Henry, but for some reason fits being in his garden. She's reading something, completely absorbed, unaware that I'm watching from the edge of the rose garden.
She looks peaceful. Younger somehow. It makes me want to protect that peace, makes me want to build walls around it so nothing can touch her.
Dangerous thinking. Protection and possession aren't the same thing, even if they feel like it sometimes.
"Good book?" I ask, approaching across the perfectly manicured lawn.
She looks up, startled. For a moment, something flickers in her eyes. Pleasure, maybe. Warmth. Then the walls go back up, professional distance reasserting itself.
"Poetry," she says. "Found it in Henry's library."
"Any good?"
"Depends if you like sad Irish men writing about lost love."
"Sounds about right for this family."
That gets me almost a smile. Progress.
"Can't sleep?" she asks.
"Early meeting. Thought I'd check on you before I go."
"Check on me how? Make sure I haven't tried to scale the walls?"
"Make sure you're safe."
She sets the book aside and gives me her full attention. "Should I not be?"
"Probably not. There are things happening, wheels in motion. Might get complicated soon."
"More complicated than it already is?"
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Smart girl. She’s probably already figured out that my early morning visit means trouble.
"What kind of complications?"
"The kind where people try to hurt you to get to us."
"And what kind of people are 'us' exactly?"
"The kind who don't let threats go unanswered."
She nods, understanding. We're talking about war now, about the kind of violence that doesn't discriminate between soldiers and civilians.
"Are you scared?" she asks.
"Of what?"
"Of whatever's coming. Of what you might have to do."
Honest question, deserving an honest answer.
"Yeah. Little bit."
"What scares you most?"
"Not being fast enough. Not being smart enough. Letting down the people counting on me."
"People like me?"
"People like you."
We sit in silence for a moment, surrounded by Henry's perfect garden and the illusion of safety it represents. Both of us knowing that safety is temporary, that violence is coming whether we're ready or not.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Ask away."
"Last night. When you kissed me. Was that real, or was it just part of the job?"
Direct question. The kind that demands a direct answer.
"Real."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
"Because lying would be easier. It would keep things simple, professional."
"And telling the truth complicates things?"
"Everything about you complicates things."
She studies my face like she's trying to read tea leaves. Looking for tells, for signs that I'm playing some kind of game.
"I want to trust you," she says finally.
"But?"
"But trusting people is how you get hurt. How you end up alone."
"Not trusting people is how you stay alone."
"Maybe alone is safer."
"Maybe. But it's also lonelier."
She's quiet for a long moment, considering. When she speaks, her voice is careful, measured.
"If I trusted you, what would that look like?"
"I don't know. We'd figure it out as we go."
"And if I got hurt?"
"Then I'd spend the rest of my life making sure whoever hurt you never breathed again."
The words come out harder than I intended. More honest, more violent. But they're true. If anyone hurt her, if anyone so much as made her cry, I'd burn down half of Ireland to make them pay.
"That's not healthy," she says.
"Probably not. But it's honest."
She laughs but there's no humor in it. "Honest. Right. Because honesty's worked out so well for me in the past."
"I'm not your father. I'm not your mother. I'm not anyone who's hurt you before."
"No. You're just a man whose job is protecting me. Whose paycheck depends on keeping me safe."
"My paycheck comes from Henry. This—" I gesture between us "—has nothing to do with money or jobs or family obligations."
"What is it then?"
"Selfish. Personal. Something that scares the hell out of me."
She's looking at me with those sharp blue eyes, seeing more than I want her to. Seeing the truth I've been trying to hide from myself.
"This is insane," she says.
"Yeah."
"We barely know each other."
"Yeah."
"You could be anyone. A killer, a liar, someone who'll disappear the moment this job is finished."
"Could be. But I'm not."
"How do I know that?"
"You don't. That's what trust means: believing in something without proof."
She's quiet for a long time, weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, she reaches for my hand, fingers intertwining with mine.
"This doesn't mean anything," she says.
"Okay."
"I'm not making any promises."
"Neither am I."
"And if this goes badly..."
"Then it goes badly. But at least we'll know we tried."
She nods, decision made. Whatever happens next, we're in it together.
"Be careful today," she says.
"Always am."
"Liar."
"Yeah. But I'm a careful liar."
I stand to leave, but her hand tightens on mine.
"Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"Come back."
Simple words, but they carry weight. She's not just asking me to be careful. She's asking me to choose her over whatever violence is waiting in the shadows.
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I kiss her forehead, gentle, careful, like she's something precious that might break if I'm not gentle enough.
Then I walk away, carrying the memory of her touch and the weight of promises I hope I can keep.
Time to meet Sullivan. Time to plan Trace Harrington's death.
Time to end this war before it takes away anything else I care about.