Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
alastríona
I wake up to the feeling of being watched.
Not the unsettling kind that makes your skin crawl, but the warm, careful attention of someone who's been awake for a while, studying your face like they're trying to memorize it.
Freddie's dark eyes are the first thing I see when I open mine. He's lying on his side, head propped on his hand, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice deep and rough.
My skin tingles at the sound. "How long have you been watching me?"
"An hour or so. Didn't want to wake you."
There's something different about him this afternoon. Calmer, maybe. Like lying beside me has settled something restless inside him.
"Did you sleep?" I ask.
"No, I was content just watching you."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. When was the last time someone looked at me like I was something precious?
"Oh," I mumble softly, unsure what I should say.
He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The touch is gentle, reverent, like he's still not quite sure I'm real.
"We should probably get up," he says, but makes no move to leave the bed.
"Probably."
But neither of us moves. We lie there in the morning light filtering through the expensive curtains, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Alastríona."
My name sounds different in his voice this morning. Softer, more intimate. Like it belongs to him now.
"Yeah?"
"When you said you wanted to try this, did you mean it?"
"I meant it."
"Even knowing what's coming? What I might have to do today?"
I study his face, see the worry there; the fear that violence will change how I see him, will make me run back to Belfast and never look back.
"Especially knowing that."
Relief flickers across his features. Then he's moving closer, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
When he kisses me, it's different from last night. Slower, deeper, like he's got all the time in the world to explore my mouth. I kiss him back without hesitation, without the fear that made me pull away before.
His hand slides into my hair, and tilts my head for better access. I can feel the controlled strength in his touch. It makes me want things I shouldn't want, considering what's coming today.
"We really should get up," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Should we?"
"Henry will want to see you, make sure you understand what's happening tonight."
Tonight. When Trace Harrington plans to murder my grandfather and everyone else sitting at his dinner table.
Reality crashes back down, cold and sharp. This isn't just about us anymore. There are people depending on us to make the right choices, to stay focused on what matters.
"Right," I say, pulling back reluctantly. "Time to face the world."
"Unfortunately."
But he doesn't move away immediately. Just looks at me for another moment, like he's storing the memory for later.
"Whatever happens today," he says quietly, "last night mattered. This matters."
"I know."
"Good. Because I need you to remember that when things get complicated."
* * *
Henry is standing behind his desk when we enter his office. Thankfully, Marcus is nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, the traitor is far away from here. I'm not sure what I'd do if I saw him right now.
"Alastríona," Henry says, genuine warmth in his voice. "How are you feeling this afternoon?"
"Like I'm about to be thrown into the deep end."
"Apt description." He gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. "Sit. We need to discuss tonight."
Freddie and I settle into the leather chairs, and I glance up at Henry.
"Freddie's told you what we're expecting?" Henry asks.
"Some of it. Trace is planning to attack during dinner tonight."
"Among other things. The man's developed an unhealthy obsession with you, I'm afraid. He sees you as the key to breaking this family's spirit."
"And what's our plan?"
"We're going to give him exactly what he wants. Let him think he's walking into an easy target."
"While actually walking into a trap," Freddie adds.
Henry nods. "Precisely. Though I'd prefer you weren't here when it happens."
"Where would I go?"
"Stephen's house. His wife, Jessica, is eager to meet you, and it's the safest place in Dublin right now."
I glance at Freddie, seeing him nod slightly. He's already thought this through, already decided where I'll be when the shooting starts.
"And after?" I ask. "When Trace is dead and this war is over?"
"After, you decide what kind of life you want to build. Here with us, or somewhere else entirely. Your choice."
The door opens before I can respond. Denis enters, followed by two women I don't recognize, a blonde and a redhead, they are both beautiful.
"Alastríona," Denis says, "I'd like you to meet more of the family. This is my sister, Makenna, and my daughter, Holly."
Makenna Gallagher is stunning in a dangerous way. Blonde hair, blue eyes like mine, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how deadly you are. She moves like a predator, all controlled grace and barely contained violence.
"Finally," she says, studying me with those sharp blue eyes. "I've been wanting to meet Killian's daughter."
Holly looks to be in her early twenties, with red hair and freckles and the same intelligent eyes that seem to run in this family. She smiles at me, warm and genuine.
"Da's told me so much about you," she says. "I can't believe you grew up in Belfast without knowing about any of us."
"Makes two of us."
"Right," Makenna says, all business now. "We need to train you."
"Train me for what?"
"To fight. To protect yourself. To not be a liability when things go sideways."
The words sting, even though I know she's probably right. In their world, being unable to defend yourself makes you a target.
"I can handle myself," I say.
"Can you? Because from what I hear, Freddie had to save you from some Belfast thugs. That doesn't exactly scream 'capable fighter' to me."
Heat flares in my chest. "Those men had weapons. And there were four of them."
"And there will always be more men with more weapons. That's why you need to be better than them."
Freddie tenses beside me. I can feel the protective energy radiating off him, see his hands clench into fists.
"It's fine," I say, putting my hand on his arm. The tension in his muscles eases slightly at my touch. "She's right. I should know how to protect myself."
"Damn right you should," Makenna says. "Training room's downstairs. Let's see what Killian taught you."
The training room is impressive; mats covering the floor, punching bags hanging from the ceiling, enough weapons to arm a small militia. Makenna strips down to workout clothes, revealing a body that's clearly seen years of hard training.
"Start with the basics," she says, settling into a fighting stance. "Show me what you've got."
I slip off my shoes and tie my hair back.
The training room feels different now with everyone watching; it’s heavier, and charged with expectation.
I settle into the stance Dad taught me when I was twelve; weight balanced on the balls of my feet, hands up but relaxed, ready to move in any direction.
"Nice form," Denis says from the sidelines. Malcolm and Danny have joined us, along with Holly and even Henry, who is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with the kind of interest that suggests this is more than casual curiosity.
"Form's easy," Makenna says, circling me like a predator. "Let's see if you can use it."
She comes at me fast, testing my reflexes. A sharp jab toward my face that I slip by inches, letting it whistle past my ear. She follows immediately with a hook to my ribs that I block with my forearm, feeling the impact reverberate up my arm.
She's good. Trained, professional, the kind of fighter who's seen real violence. But she's also predictable in the way that formally trained people often are. She moves in combinations, follows patterns, thinks three moves ahead instead of reacting to what's happening now.
Dad didn't just teach me to fight. He taught me to read people, to see their tells, to know what they're going to do before they do it. Watch their eyes, mo stór, his voice echoes in my memory. The body lies, but the eyes always tell the truth.
Makenna's eyes flick left before she throws her next combination. Right cross, left hook, knee to the body. I can see it coming from the way she shifts her weight, the slight tightening around her eyes.
I slip the cross by a hair's breadth, duck under the hook, and as she commits to the knee, driving her weight forward, I step into her guard and drive my elbow into her ribs. Hard.
She staggers back, genuinely surprised, one hand pressed to her side. "Not bad. You move like someone who's had proper training."
"Dad was thorough."
"Apparently." She rolls her shoulders, reassessing me with new understanding. "Let's try this."
She moves to a weapons rack and produces two training knives from seemingly nowhere. The blades are dull, rubber-coated, but weighted to feel like the real thing. She tosses one to me with casual precision.
"Knife work. This should be interesting."
This is where they expect me to falter. Where the Belfast bar girl should be out of her depth, overwhelmed by a weapon she's never handled. If only they knew how wrong they are.
But Dad's voice echoes in my head: Never let them see weakness, mo stór. The moment they think you're soft, you're dead.
I catch the training knife one-handed and let it settle into my palm, testing its weight, its balance.
It’s lighter than the real thing Dad trained me with, but close enough.
I roll it between my fingers once—a nervous habit he never managed to break me out of—and settle into a knife fighter's crouch.
"Jesus," Makenna breathes, eyes widening slightly. "Where did you learn to do that?"