Chapter 12 #2
The room goes quieter. I can feel their attention sharpening, see the way Malcolm straightens up, the way Danny leans forward. Even Marcus looks interested now, his cold eyes fixed on my hands.
Makenna comes at me with professional skill, her knife dancing in complex patterns designed to confuse and overwhelm. She's fast, precise, and deadly. This isn't the kind of training you get in a gym; this is military, specialized, the kind of knife work that's meant to kill.
She weaves a net of steel around me, probing for weaknesses, testing my defenses. A thrust toward my ribs that I deflect. A slash at my throat that I duck. An upward cut aimed at my wrist that I avoid by inches.
She's showing off now, I realize, demonstrating her skill for the family, proving that she's the one who should be training me. The movements are beautiful in their own way, like a deadly dance.
But they're also wasteful. Too many flourishes, too much art instead of efficiency.
I let her drive me back across the mats, let her think she's winning. Let her get comfortable with the rhythm she's established, the pattern of attack and retreat.
Knife fighting isn't about looking good, mo stór, Dad's voice whispers. It's about going home alive. Everything else is just showing off.
Makenna commits to a particularly elaborate combination, a high feint followed by a low thrust. She telegraphs it with a slight shift of her weight, a tiny tell that most people would miss.
But I'm not most people.
I step inside her guard as she lunges, trap her knife hand with my left arm, and bring my blade up to rest against her throat in one fluid motion. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds.
The room goes dead silent.
"Fuck me," Malcolm breathes.
Makenna's eyes are wide, staring down at the rubber blade pressed against her carotid artery. She's completely still, barely breathing, professional enough to know that even a training knife can hurt if applied with enough force.
"Where the hell did you learn that?" she asks quietly.
"Dad taught me. He said knife fighting wasn't about fancy moves but about ending things fast."
"Jesus Christ," Danny mutters. "That's advanced military technique. Special forces level."
"How the hell did Killian know how to do that?" Denis asks, his voice careful.
I step back, releasing Makenna's knife hand.
She immediately brings her free hand to her throat, rubbing where the training blade pressed against her skin.
I notice a thin white scar at the base of her neck, barely visible unless you know what to look for.
Someone's held a real knife to her throat before. Someone who wasn't training.
"Dad knew everything," I say simply.
"Right," Makenna says, her voice slightly hoarse. "Maybe you don't need as much training as I thought."
"Maybe I don't need any training at all."
"Everyone needs training," she says, but there's less conviction in it now. "But Christ, you've got a better foundation than most of us."
Freddie's watching me with an expression I can't read. Surprise, definitely. Respect, absolutely. But there's something else there too, a kind of hunger that makes heat curl in my stomach. Like seeing me fight has awakened something in him.
"Your father knew what he was doing," Henry says quietly, pushing off from the wall. "I had no idea Killian trained you. I apologize, my dear, for the lack of faith I had in you."
"He wanted me to be able to protect myself."
"Well, mission accomplished." Makenna wipes sweat from her forehead, still looking slightly stunned. "Though I'd still like to work with you sometime. Compare techniques, see what else he taught you."
"Maybe later. After tonight."
If there is an after tonight. If we all survive what's coming.
Freddie moves to my side, close enough that I can feel his warmth. "We should go," he says. "Stephen's expecting us."
"Of course." Henry stands, suddenly looking every one of his seventy-odd years. "Be careful today, both of you. Come back safe."
"We will," I promise, though I'm not sure it's a promise I can keep.
* * *
The drive to Stephen's house is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
I keep thinking about the look in Makenna's eyes when I put that knife to her throat.
Respect, yes, but also something else. Recognition, maybe.
Like she finally understood that I'm not just some Belfast bar girl who needs protecting.
"You didn't tell me," Freddie says finally.
"Tell you what?"
"How good you are. With knives, hand-to-hand. You could have handled those men in the alley without my help."
"Could I? There were four of them, and they had weapons."
"You took out two before I even got there. The third would have been easy."
True. I probably could have handled Sean and his friends without help. But I'm glad Freddie was there anyway.
"Does it change anything?" I ask. "Knowing I can fight?"
"It changes everything. It means I don't have to worry about you as much."
"You were worried about me?"
He glances over and smiles. "Constantly. From the moment I first saw you in Murphy's."
"Why?"
"Because you mattered. Even then, before I knew you, you mattered."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. This dangerous man with blood on his hands has been worried about me since the night we met.
"I can take care of myself," I say.
"I know. But that doesn't mean you should have to."
We pull into Stephen's driveway, a huge house in the middle of nowhere. Nothing like Henry's mansion, somehow more welcoming.
"Ready to meet Jessica?" Freddie asks.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
He takes my hand as we walk to the front door, fingers intertwining with mine. A simple gesture, but it feels like a promise. Like whatever comes next, we're facing it together.
The door opens before we can knock, revealing a dark-haired woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile.
"You must be Alastríona," she says. "I'm Jessica. Come in, both of you. I've been dying to meet the woman who's got Freddie tied in knots."
I like her immediately.
Today might be the day everything changes. But for now, walking into Stephen's house with Freddie's hand in mine, I feel like I might actually belong somewhere.
Like I might have found something worth fighting for.