24. Tiernan
TIERNAN
Lorcan groans when I chuck a jug of freezing cold water over him.
“Really?” he grunts, lying on the bench in the changing room, now soaking wet and bloody.
“I should be asking you that, you utter imbecile.”
He snorts and then chokes on his own blood.
I grab a towel from the shelf and throw it at his face. He catches it on reflex, which tells me he’s not as bad as he looks.
“Sit up,” I say. “Before you drown in your own blood.”
He pushes himself upright slowly, wincing through every inch of the movement. His face is a mess. Split eyebrow, cheekbone swelling dark and fast, a cut across his jaw that should probably have a stitch or two. His knuckles are torn to ribbons.
“Jacob said Ronan Doyle,” I say.
“Jacob talks too much.”
“Jacob was trying to give me a heads-up so I could stop you from getting yourself beaten to death.”
“Ronan couldn’t beat me to death if he fucking tried,” he mutters.
I drag a stool over and sit in front of him, tilting his head up to look at the damage in the harsh light. “What did she say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Lorcan.”
“She asked to be loved.” He says it flat, like he’s reading a tax return. No emotion. No inflection.
I sit back and look at him.
He stares at the wall.
“And you ran,” I say.
“I ran,” he states.
“You’re a dick.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You need someone to clean up your face and to take your meetings for the next week.”
“You can do both.”
I exhale slowly and reach for the first aid kit. “Fintan reports she is fine.”
“Fine. What exactly does that mean?”
“The way Fintan means it? She’s not crying or screaming obscenities at you from afar.”
“I’ll take it.” He hisses when I press the antiseptic wipe to the cut on his jaw.
“She asked to be loved,” he repeats, quieter this time, like he’s testing the weight of it again. “I told her I was incapable.”
“Were those your exact words?”
“More or less.”
I stare at him. “Lorcan. You told a woman who has clearly been ground into dust by someone that you are incapable of loving her.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s not the whole truth, and you know it.”
“I can’t love anyone.”
“Not true. You love yourself.”
“Fuck you, arsehole.”
He takes the wipe I hand him and presses it to his eyebrow, which means he wants his hands occupied. I’ve known him long enough to read that particular tell.
“She didn’t fall apart because you said it,” I tell him, pulling out the butterfly strips. “She fell apart because she believed you.”
He jerks away with a scowl.
“Hold still.” I press the strip across the cut on his eyebrow. “She’s been told she isn’t worth the effort before. You confirmed it without even realising.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t worth the effort. I said the fucking opposite. She chose to focus on the wrong thing. Besides, that wasn’t what set her off. She told me I gaslighted her, and she wouldn’t accept it.”
“Did you gaslight her?”
He grimaces. “Might’ve.”
“In what way?”
“I told her that she was making me act this way.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Someone—Thompson, her parents, someone—has done a real number on her.”
“And you added to it.”
He stares at me for longer than a few seconds. “I added to it.”
“Are you going to apologise?”
“No.”
“Why? Because Lorcan Keane is never wrong?”
“Because Lorcan Keane doesn’t know how.”
He stares at the floor between his feet. His jaw tightens, and I watch the muscle jump under the bruise forming along his cheekbone.
“You’re going to have to figure it out,” I say. “Fast.”
“She doesn’t want an apology from me. She wants me to mean it.”
“Then mean it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple. You backed away from her when she needed you, but you called Fintan because you couldn’t stand the thought of her being alone.” I press another strip across the cut on his eyebrow. He doesn’t flinch this time. “That’s not incapable, Lorcan. That’s terrified.”
He says nothing.
That’s as close to confirmation as he gets.
I sit back on the stool and study him. The damage on his face is significant.
Ronan Doyle earns his reputation. Lorcan will have two black eyes by morning, and his ribs are going to scream at him for a week.
“Did getting beaten up make you feel better?” I ask, reaching for the ice packs to place over his swollen knuckles.
“No,” he says sullenly.
I snort. “You’re a dick.”
“So you said.”
“There is only one thing that will make you feel better.”
“What is that then?”
“Going to her like this and telling her you will try your fucking damnedest to be the man she needs you to be.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. She deserves better than me. Than us.”
“Tough. We’re the only thing she’s got. We are the only thing standing between her and the monsters who hurt her.”
“Harry Thompson is a goner.”
“That’s my line.”
I look up at the voice. Alex Snowden is leaning against the doorframe, expensive suit, hair neat, ankles crossed. “What do you want?” I ask, standing up.
“It’s fine,” Lorcan says, holding up his hand. “What did you find with the name I gave you?”
“Elle Langley. Actually Eleanor Hargrove-Pierce.”
“We know this,” I interrupt.
Lorcan shoots me a death stare.
Snowden pushes off from the doorframe and comes closer, stopping in front of Lorcan. He looks at the damage on his face without reacting. “So you know her history at Pembrooke?”
“Some of it.”
Snowden’s eyes cut to mine. “Do you know why her family removed her quietly instead of going to the police?”
“Reputation management,” Lorcan says.
“Partly.” Snowden reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper.
He holds it out to Lorcan, who doesn’t take it.
He nods at me instead. I take it and unfold it.
My blood spikes with a reaction I’m not unfamiliar with, but this time the rage takes on a whole new level.
“Abortion,” I state flatly. “Thompson’s? ”
Snowden nods once. “Thompson’s. She was fifteen. The family handled it privately, paid for the procedure, and then paid Thompson’s wife to keep her mouth shut. Thompson walked away with an NDA, a settlement and a sealed record.”
The paper feels like it’s burning through my fingers. “They paid him to keep his mouth shut after he knocked up their underage daughter.”
Snowden’s eyes tighten. He is as disgusted as I am.
Lorcan hasn’t moved. He sits on the bench with the bloodied towel in his hands and stares at the middle distance between the floor and whatever private hell he just descended into. His face has gone completely still. A glacial quiet that goes bone-deep.
That quiet is the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed from him, and I’ve watched Lorcan Keane do things that would make grown men lose their minds.
I fold the paper carefully and set it on the bench beside him. He doesn’t look at it.
“How did you get this?” I ask Snowden.
“I have people.”
“So do we.”
He smiles. It’s secretive, and I hate him even more than I already do. “You paid them to give us just enough, but not all of it. Why? So you could come in here with your news and demand what, exactly?”
Lorcan stands up then. If he is feeling any kind of pain right now, you wouldn’t know it.
He turns to face Snowden. “Alex,” he says.
“We go way back. I tolerate you. You tolerate me less. Tiernan asked you a question, and I expect a fucking honest answer with no fucking around. As you can see, I’m not in the mood. ”
“I want a seat at the table.”
“Which table?” I ask, even though I know. “There is no table.”
He shoots me a wry look. “Of course there isn’t.” He returns his gaze to Lorcan. “I want a seat at the table. You are the only one who can give it to me.”
I grimace because the dismissal pisses me off. Lorcan looks at him for a long moment.
“You’re using Elle’s trauma as a bargaining chip,” he says quietly.
Snowden’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m giving you information you needed.”
“For a price.”
“Everything has a price.”
Lorcan takes one step toward him. “Not her.”
The room cools around those two words. I feel it in my bones.
Snowden finally loses a fraction of his polish. “I pulled threads. That’s what you do in this city when powerful people bury something. You of all men should know that.”
“I know men like you always want something.”
Snowden’s eyes sharpen. “And men like you always take everything.”
I step between them before Lorcan does something that makes a political mess none of us has time for. “You want a seat. Why?”
“Because my family’s name opens doors, but it doesn’t protect me from what’s coming.”
“What’s coming?” I ask.
He looks at me then, and the superiority disappears for just long enough to show something else.
Fear.
That interests me enough to stop wanting to put his head through the wall for about three seconds.
“A group of men that you don’t want to mess with.”
“Who?” I ask.
Lorcan interrupts before Snowden can answer. “You want protection? Hire better security.”
“They can’t provide the kind of security your… organisation can.”
“Organisation,” I snort. “And what organisation would that be?”
“Don’t play dumb, Tiernan. It’s not a good look on you,” Snowden replies.
I growl and move forward, fists clenched.
Lorcan’s hand stops me from advancing. Just.
“Do you have a name for this supposed organisation?” Lorcan asks.
Snowden licks his lips. “The Bastion, is that right?”
I hiss. “You are walking a fine line, Snowden. I’d be very careful of your next words.”
“Where did you hear about it?” Lorcan asks.
“I hear shit, I know shit. I know you are the head of that particular snake, and I want in.”
Lorcan laughs.
It’s not amusement. It’s worse.
Snowden hears it too because his spine straightens, and that polished mask he wears slips another inch.
“You want in,” Lorcan repeats.
“I want protection and influence,” Snowden says. “You need access to rooms my family can get you into. I need protection from men who are moving through those same rooms without any of your rules.”
“Our rules?” I ask. “You don’t know a fucking thing about our rules.”
“I know enough.”
“No,” Lorcan says. “You know a name.”
“Don’t treat me like a fucking fool, Lor. The Bastion is real. You run it. Men pay for access, protection, silence, and leverage. You control the balance between men who think money makes them untouchable and men like you who prove them wrong.”
I stare at him because he isn’t entirely wrong, which makes this much more irritating.
Lorcan doesn’t react. He looks at Snowden with the same calm he uses before signing contracts or ending lives. “Who told you?”
Snowden hesitates.
Wrong move.
Lorcan closes the distance and grabs him by the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the lockers hard enough to rattle metal down the row. Snowden’s head cracks against one of them. Snowden grunts, but he doesn’t panic.
That is interesting.
Lorcan gets in his face, bloody and half-wrecked, still the most dangerous man in the room by a mile. “Name.”
Snowden’s jaw works. “If I give you the name, I need assurance.”
“You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“I’m always in a position to negotiate. That’s why I’m still alive.”
Lorcan drives his forearm across Snowden’s throat. Not enough to crush. Enough to make the message clear.
I step closer. “You came here with Elle’s trauma and a demand. Start proving you’re useful before I decide you’re not worth the paperwork.”
Snowden’s eyes flick to me. He has gone pale, but his control holds. I almost respect it. “Linton Farnworth. He was drunk. I pressed him harder than he could stand under the circumstances.”
“Linton,” I growl. “I’ll fucking kill that little prick. Who else has he told?”
Snowden gives me a look. “How the fuck should I know?”
“It was rhetorical, you piece of shit.”
“Nice. I’ll remember that.”
“Please do.”
“Gentlemen,” Lorcan says, releasing Snowden to my annoyance. “We can deal with Linton later. You want in, Alex. You are going to have to do better than hand me something I would’ve found anyway.”
“Facts,” I grunt, shoving Snowden back a few feet, just because I can.
“Name it,” he says.
Lorcan grimaces. “I’ll get back to you.”
Snowden nods and backs out. I watch him go, never taking my eyes off him. As soon as he is out of sight, I turn to Lorcan. “Well, that was unexpected.”
“Not really. I’ve been expecting this for a while now. Alex doesn’t just want power in this city, he wants the whole country to know his name.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Lorcan breathes in and then winces. “Right now, take me home. I need to die quietly.”
I snort, nod, and throw him a t-shirt, which he pulls on with difficulty. “Let’s go. Die quietly tonight, and then tomorrow you speak to Elle.”