Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
alastríona
The pain medication makes everything fuzzy around the edges, but it doesn't make the fear go away.
I've been in this hospital bed for a week now, watching Dublin through windows that might as well be prison bars. Every shadow in the corridor could be one of Trace's men. Every unfamiliar voice makes my heart race.
The knife wound is healing, the doctors say. Clean cut, missed the major organs, should be fine in a few weeks. But my body doesn't feel fine. It feels like I've been hit by a truck, then run over by another one for good measure.
My left arm's in a proper cast now, bright white plaster from wrist to elbow. They had to reset the bone under anesthesia. Apparently, Tony did more damage than just a simple break. Compound fracture, they called it. Six weeks minimum before it's functional again.
Freddie's asleep in the chair beside my bed; his head tilted back at an angle that's going to give him a sore neck when he wakes up. He's been here every day, leaving only when Henry forces him to go shower or eat something resembling a proper meal.
Henry's here too, reading a newspaper in the other chair. He glances up when I shift position, immediately alert.
"How's the pain, love?"
"Better." Lie. Everything hurts, from my ribs to my arm to the knife wound that pulls every time I breathe. But complaining won't help anything.
"The nurse can bring more medication—"
"I'm fine."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't push, just sets aside his paper and moves his chair closer to the bed.
"We need to talk," he says quietly. "About what comes next."
"Trace is still out there."
He nods, the pain in his eyes making my heart clench. "Yes. We're working on that."
"Working on it, how?"
"Every contact we have is looking for him. Every favor we're owed, every debt outstanding. He can't hide forever."
"Can't he? He has been planning this for months, possibly years. He'll have hidey-holes, safe houses, and people we don't know about."
Henry's quiet for a moment, considering. "Probably. But he's also angry and emotional. Men like that make mistakes."
"What if he doesn't? What if he disappears and I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder?"
"Then we make sure you're protected. Round-the-clock security, safe houses, whatever it takes."
"That's not living. That's just existing."
"It's surviving. Sometimes that's enough."
But is it? Is a life spent hiding, jumping at shadows, worth living? Or would I be better off taking my chances, refusing to let fear turn me into a prisoner?
"I'm sorry," Henry says suddenly.
"For what?"
"For all of this. For bringing you into our world, for making you a target. You were safe in Belfast, hidden away where none of this could touch you. I should have left you there."
"Should you? Because I wasn't really living in Belfast either. I was just... waiting. For something to change, for something to matter."
"And now?"
"Now I'm part of something. Part of a family, even if it's a dangerous one."
Henry reaches over and takes my uninjured hand in his. His skin is papery, marked with age spots, but his grip is still strong.
"Your father would be proud of you," he says. "The way you fought them, the way you're handling all this, it's exactly what he would have done."
"Is it? Because I feel like I'm falling apart."
"You're allowed to fall apart. Christ knows I did when we lost Killian."
This is the first time he's talked about Dad's death directly, without euphemisms or careful language. The first time I've seen real pain in his face instead of the controlled grief he usually shows.
"Tell me about him," I say. "About what he was like before Belfast, before me."
Henry's smile is sad, complicated. "Wild. Reckless. Always getting into fights he couldn't win and talking his way out of trouble he shouldn't have survived."
"Sounds familiar."
"You get that from him; the stubborn streak, the refusal to back down even when you should."
"Mam always said I was too much like him for my own good."
"Your mother never understood Killian. She never understood that his strength came from caring too much, not too little."
"She was scared of this world."
"She had reason to be. This life takes people, Alastríona. Takes them young, takes them sudden. I've buried two sons, too many men, and more friends than I can count."
The pain in his voice is raw, unguarded. "Two sons?"
"Seamus—Makenna and Denis' father. He died protecting Holly. Some fucking bitch set it up for Holly to be taken. He died protecting his granddaughter. He was a good man; a great leader, an even better father."
I've never heard of Seamus before. Another uncle I never knew existed, another piece of family history kept from me.
"And then Killian. My boys, both gone because of enemies our family created."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it? I built this empire, made the decisions that put targets on their backs. If I'd been content with less, if I'd stayed small and quiet..."
"Then someone else would have taken over, and they'd be dead anyway. At least this way, their deaths meant something."
Henry looks at me sharply. "You really believe that?"
"I have to. Otherwise, Dad died for nothing, and I can't accept that."
We sit in silence for a while, two people bonding over shared loss.
"He talked about you constantly," Henry says eventually. "Every phone call, every visit. Alastríona this, Alastríona that. How smart you were, how strong, how much you reminded him of his mother."
"Your wife?"
"Mary. She was fierce while she lived, wouldn't back down from anyone or anything."
"What was she like?"
"Beautiful. Stubborn. Had a temper that could strip paint and a heart big enough to hold the whole world. Sound familiar?"
I try to hide my smile. "Maybe."
"She would have loved you. Would have spoiled you rotten and taught you to fight dirty."
"Dad did that already."
"Did he? The fighting dirty part?"
"Among other things. He said the world wasn't fair to women, so we had to make our own rules."
Henry laughs, genuine humor breaking through the sadness. "That's exactly what my Mary used to say. Word for word."
Freddie stirs in his chair, opening his eyes slowly. He looks confused for a moment then focuses on me.
"Hey," he says, voice rough with sleep. "How long was I out?"
"Hour or so. Henry and I were just talking."
"About what?"
"Family. Dead people. The usual cheerful hospital conversation."
He stretches, working the kinks out of his neck. "Any word from the doctors?"
"They want to keep me another day for observation, then I can go home."
"Good. This place gives me the creeps."
"Hospitals usually do," Henry says. "Too many people die in them."
"Speaking of which," Freddie says, "Maverick called while you were asleep. Still no sign of Trace, but they found the car he used to escape burned out in the mountains, completely destroyed."
"Professional job?"
"Looks like it. Whoever helped him knew what they were doing."
Henry's face hardens. "He's got resources we don't know about. People, money, safe houses. This isn't over."
"No," Freddie agrees. "It's not."
The weight of that settles over all of us. Trace is still out there, still planning, still dangerous. And next time, he might not be content with just stabbing me.
"I want to go home," I say suddenly.
"Tomorrow," Freddie says. "Doctors said—"
"No. Today. Now. I'm tired of lying here feeling helpless."
"Alastríona—"
"I'm not asking, Freddie. I'm telling you. Get me discharged or I'll discharge myself."
He looks at Henry, who shrugs. "Her choice. We can provide better security at the house anyway."
* * *
The ride back to Henry's safe house feels like returning from exile. Dublin looks different through the car windows, more dangerous, full of potential threats. But it also looks like home.
The safe house is exactly as we left it, except for the new security measures. Cameras, motion sensors, and armed guards who nod respectfully as we pass. Henry's taking no chances.
"Better?" Freddie asks as he helps me into bed.
"Much."
He settles beside me, careful not to jar my injured arm. "We need to talk about what happens next."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we fucked up. I fucked up. I should have been there to protect you, should have seen the attack coming."
"You couldn't have known—"
"I should have known. That's my job, keeping you safe. And I failed."
The self-recrimination in his voice is painful to hear. "You didn't fail. You came for me. You got me out. I'm alive because of you."
"You're hurt because of me. Because I left you alone, because I underestimated how far Trace would go."
"Freddie—"
"No. Let me finish." He sits up, looking at me directly. "I love you. More than I've ever loved anything or anyone. And because I love you, I'm going to make you a promise."
"What kind of promise?"
"I'm going to protect you with everything I am, everything I have. I'm not leaving your side again, not trusting your safety to anyone else. If Trace wants to get to you, he'll have to go through me first."
"That's not sustainable. You can't watch me twenty-four hours a day."
"Watch me."
The intensity in his voice, the absolute conviction, sends a shiver down my spine. "What about your life? Your job? Your friends?"
"You are my life. You are my job. Everything else is just noise."
"That's not healthy."
"Probably not. But it's honest."
I study his face, seeing the determination there. The love, yes, but also something darker. Something possessive and dangerous.
"And if I don't want a bodyguard? If I want to live my own life, make my own choices?"
"Then we'll figure out how to do that safely. But we do it together or we don't do it at all."
The finality in his voice should scare me. It should make me worry about losing my independence, my agency. Instead, it makes me feel safer than I have since this whole nightmare started.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"Okay. But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"No lying to me about the danger. No keeping me in the dark to protect me. If something's happening, I want to know about it."
"Agreed."
"And no treating me like glass. I'm hurt, not helpless."
"Agreed."
"And when we find Trace—"
"When I find Trace."
"When we find Trace, I want to be there. I want to see his face when he realizes he lost."
Freddie's quiet for a long moment. "That's not negotiable. When I find him, you'll be somewhere safe."
"Freddie—"
"Some things aren't up for discussion. Your safety is one of them."
I want to argue, want to insist on my right to face the man who tried to kill me, but looking at Freddie's face, seeing the steel in his eyes, I know this is one battle I won't win.
"Fine. But I want details afterward. Everything that happens to him."
"Deal."
He lies down beside me, pulling me carefully against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, feel the controlled strength in his arms as they circle me.
"I thought I'd lost you," he murmurs against my hair. "When I saw you on that floor, covered in blood..."
"But you didn't lose me. I'm right here."
"Yeah. You are."
His arms tighten around me, careful of my injuries but unmistakably possessive. Like he's memorizing the feeling of holding me, storing it up against future loss.
"Freddie?"
"Mm?"
"I love you too. Just in case I forgot to mention it."
"You didn't forget. But I like hearing it anyway."
Trace Harrington is planning his next move, thinking of new ways to hurt us. But here, in this bed, in these arms, I feel safe.
For now, that's enough.
I'm alive, I'm loved, and I'm home.
Tonight, that's everything.