Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
alastríona
I'm still sitting on the floor beside Henry's body when Trace starts to stir.
Twenty minutes have passed since I hit him with the hurley.
Twenty minutes of holding my grandfather's cooling hand while his blood soaks into the expensive Persian rug beneath us.
Twenty minutes of watching his chest remain still, of memorizing his face, of trying to accept that another person I love is gone.
But I can't fall apart. Not yet. Not while Trace is still breathing.
The knife feels heavy in my free hand—his knife, the one he used to murder Henry. The blade is sharp and covered in blood. Blood that now stains my hands.
Trace groans, his head rolling to the side. There's a gash above his left ear where the hurley connected, blood matting his graying hair. He'll have a concussion, maybe worse. Good. I hope his head is splitting.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as consciousness returns.
He tries to sit up, then winces as he tries to put a hand to his bleeding scalp.
But I have his arms and legs tied together.
I used the ties from the curtains. It’ll hold him off until I can clear my thoughts and figure out what the hell I’m going to do next.
"You little bitch," he slurs.
"Shut up."
"Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I've given you exactly what you deserve."
He looks around the entrance hall, taking in Henry's body, the blood, me sitting here with his knife. For a moment, something like respect flickers in his eyes.
"You killed him," he says.
"No. You killed him. I'm just the one who's going to make you pay for it."
Trace laughs, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "What are you going to do? Stab me? You don't have it in you."
"Try me."
But even as I say it, I know he's partly right. Killing someone in self-defense is one thing. Cold-blooded murder is another. Even when they deserve it, even when every fiber of my being wants to drive this blade through his heart.
"Your boyfriend's not here to save you," Trace continues, slowly pushing himself to a sitting position. It’s difficult to do with his arms and legs tied up, but he manages it. "Neither is your precious grandfather. It's just you and me now."
"That's all I need."
"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a scared little girl playing with weapons she doesn't understand."
The words are meant to provoke me, to make me angry enough to do something stupid. But I've learned enough from Dad, from Freddie, to recognize manipulation when I hear it.
"Keep talking," I say. "Every word makes killing you easier."
Trace slides along the floor, and I know that he’s trying to find a weapon. I raise the knife, letting him see the steel.
"What are you going to do? Cut me? We both know you don't have the stomach for real violence."
"You murdered my grandfather. The man who gave me a family. You think I don't have the stomach for avenging him?"
"I think you're all talk and no action. Just like your father."
The mention of Dad sends rage shooting through my veins. "Don't you dare—"
"Killian was weak. Soft. He chose love over power, chose family over strength. That's why he's dead."
"He's dead because psychopaths like you can't stand the thought of people being happy."
"He's dead because he made enemies he couldn't handle."
The sound of engines outside cuts through our conversation. Multiple vehicles approaching fast, tires screeching on gravel. Trace's eyes go wide. He thought he’d kill me and Henry and be gone before Freddie came back.
Car doors slam. Footsteps run toward the house. Then Freddie's voice sounds, sharp with panic and rage.
"Tríona!"
Relief floods through me so intensely I almost drop the knife. He's here. He's alive. He came back.
"In here!" I call out.
The front door explodes inward, splinters flying as Freddie kicks it off its hinges. He bursts through with his gun drawn, Maverick and Stephen flanking him, Emmanuel and the others close behind.
Freddie takes in the scene in seconds. Henry's body, me sitting beside it with a knife, Trace bleeding on the floor. His face goes through several emotions at once: relief that I'm alive, grief at seeing Henry dead, murderous rage at finding Trace here.
"Jesus Christ," Stephen breathes.
"Are you hurt?" Freddie asks me, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion.
"No. But Henry..." My voice breaks on his name.
"I know. I can see."
Maverick and Emmanuel move toward Trace, weapons ready. He raises his hands slowly, smart enough to know that any sudden movement will get him shot.
"Well, well," Trace says. "The cavalry arrives. Little late, though."
"Shut the fuck up," Maverick snarls.
Denis pushes past the others and drops to his knees beside Henry's body. His face crumples when he sees the wound, when he realizes his grandfather is really gone.
"Fuck, Henry," he whispers.
Malcolm and Danny appear in the doorway, take one look at the scene, and their expressions harden into something dangerous. Their great-grandfather is dead, murdered by the man we've been hunting for months.
"Get him out of here," Freddie says, nodding toward Trace. "Before I do something we'll all regret."
"Where do you want him?" Emmanuel asks.
"Alive. For now. We've all got questions. Once we have answers, then we’ll kill him slowly."
"Freddie." My voice is smaller than I want it to be, but saying his name grounds me, reminds me I'm not alone anymore.
He's beside me in seconds, carefully taking the knife from my shaking hands. "It's okay. I've got you."
"He killed Henry. Right in front of me. He was protecting me, and Trace just..."
"I know. Shh, I know."
Maverick and Stephen haul Trace to his feet after cutting the curtain, and not gently. He's unsteady, probably concussed, but conscious enough to walk. They'll make sure he stays that way until we decide how he dies.
"This isn't over," Trace says as they drag him toward the door. "You can't hide from what's coming."
"Yes, it is," I say, standing up on unsteady legs. "You're finished. Done. And when Freddie gets his hands on you, you're going to beg for the mercy you never showed anyone else."
Trace laughs as they pull him outside, but there's hysteria in it now. The laugh of a man who knows he's lost everything.
Denis is still kneeling beside Henry, one hand on Henry's chest. "He died protecting her," he says quietly.
"That's what he'd have wanted," Malcolm says. "To go out defending family."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
"No. It doesn't."
Freddie slides his arm around my waist. I'm shaking, I realize. Adrenaline crash, shock, grief, all of it hitting at once.
"We need to move him," Denis says. "We can't leave him here like this."
"I'll call the undertaker," Danny offers. "The one who handled Jer's arrangements."
"Good. And I want extra security on the house."
Freddie's holding me up now, taking most of my weight as my legs threaten to give out. "Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get you upstairs."
"I don't want to leave him."
"You're not leaving him. Denis will take care of everything. Henry will be treated with the respect he deserves."
"But—"
"Tríona. You did everything you could. You protected him, we'll avenge him. Now let me take care of you."
I look down at Henry one last time, memorizing his face. Even in death, he looks dignified, peaceful. Like he's finally at rest after a lifetime of carrying other people's burdens.
"I love you," I whisper to him. "Thank you for bringing me home."
Then I let Freddie lead me away.
* * *
My room feels different now. Smaller, less safe. The sanctuary Henry created for me has been violated, tainted by violence and loss.
Freddie closes the door behind us and locks it out of habit. "Sit," he says, guiding me to the edge of the bed.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You're in shock."
He's right. I can feel it in the way my hands won't stop shaking, the way my thoughts keep skipping around like a broken record. Henry's blood on my hands. Trace's knife in my grip. The sound of steel punching through flesh.
"Tell me what happened," Freddie says gently.
So I do. Everything from the moment the alarm sounded to hitting Trace with the hurley stick. Freddie listens without interrupting, his face getting darker with each detail.
"He was protecting me," I finish. "Right up until the end, he was standing between me and danger."
"That's who he was. That's what family does."
"And now he's gone. Just like Dad, just like everyone I've ever loved."
"I'm not gone."
"Not yet. But this life, this world—it takes people, Freddie. It takes them and it doesn't give them back."
He sits beside me on the bed and pulls me against his chest. "Sometimes. But not always. Not if we're smart, if we're careful, if we fight for what matters."
"Do you really believe that?"
"I have to. Because the alternative is giving up, and I'm not giving up on us."
I want to believe him. I want to think that love can conquer violence, that happiness is possible in a world built on blood and bullets. But Henry believed that too, and now he's dead.
"I killed him," I say suddenly.
"What?"
"Henry. I got him killed. If I hadn't been here, if he hadn't been protecting me, he'd still be alive."
"Stop." Freddie's voice is firm. "Don't do that to yourself. Trace killed Henry. Trace and his obsession with revenge for imagined wrongs."
"But if I'd stayed in Belfast—"
"Then you'd probably be dead too. And Henry would have spent the rest of his life wondering about the granddaughter he never got to meet."
"Maybe that would have been better."
"For who? Henry got to know you, got to see what an amazing woman his son raised. He got to be your grandfather, even if it was only for a few months. That mattered to him."
"Did it?"
"More than you know. He told me once that meeting you was the best thing that had happened to him in years."
The words make my chest tight, make the tears I've been holding back finally spill over. "I'm going to miss him."
"So am I. So are we all. But we'll honor his memory by taking care of each other, by being the family he built."
"What happens now?"
"Now we deal with Trace. We find out what the fuck he's up to, then make sure he can never hurt anyone again."
"And after that?"
"After that, we rebuild. We mourn our dead, we strengthen our defenses, and we move forward. Together."
I curl up against him and let him hold me while the full weight of what's happened settles in. Henry's dead. The man who welcomed me home, who gave me a family, who stood between me and a madman—gone, because he loved me enough to die protecting me.
"I should have saved him," I whisper.
"You did save him. You made sure his sacrifice mattered. You stopped Trace from getting what he wanted."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"It never does. But it's what we have."
Outside, I can hear voices, vehicles, the sound of people dealing with death and its aftermath. Denis coordinating with the undertaker. Malcolm and Danny securing the house. The business of cleaning up after violence, of making the dead disappear with dignity.
"Stay with me," I say.
"Always."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
But promises are fragile things in our world. Henry promised to keep me safe, and now he's dead. Dad promised to come home, and he never did. Words are just words when bullets start flying.
Still, Freddie's arms around me feel solid, real. His heartbeat against my ear is steady, reassuring. If this is all we have—these moments of peace between storms—then I'll take them.
Tomorrow, there'll be a funeral to plan, enemies to hunt, a war to finish. But tonight, I grieve for the grandfather I barely had time to know, and love the man who holds me while I fall apart.
"He said he loved me," I tell Freddie. "Right before he died. He said he loved me and thanked me for coming home."
"Of course he did. You were his pride and joy."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I saw the way he looked at you. The way his whole face lit up when you walked into a room. You gave him something he'd been missing—a piece of Killian to love and protect."
The tears come harder now, ugly sobs that shake my whole body. Grief for Henry, for Dad, for Murphy, for everyone this war has taken. Freddie holds me through all of it, his hand stroking my hair, his voice murmuring comfort I can't quite make out.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. My body stops shaking, my breathing evens out, and the tears slow to a trickle. I'm drained, empty, hollowed out by loss.
"Sleep," Freddie murmurs. "I'll be right here."
"Don't leave."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I close my eyes and let myself drift toward unconsciousness. But even in sleep, I can smell Henry's blood on my hands, hear the sound of steel piercing flesh, see Trace's mad eyes promising more violence to come.
This isn't over. It won't be over until Trace Harrington is dead and buried, until everyone responsible for Henry's death has paid the price.
But tonight, I'm alive. Freddie's alive. And sometimes, in our world, that's victory enough.
Tomorrow, we start planning our revenge.