68. Eamon
Eamon
The penthouse is quiet when I step inside. Too quiet.
I make my way toward the bedroom, drawn in by the soft sounds of movement. The door is cracked just enough for me to see inside.
And there she is, standing before the full-length mirror, her body encased in black. Tight pants hug her curves, and a short, fitted top reveals the toned lines of her stomach. Her red hair is pulled back, sleek, severe.
She’s beautiful. Deadly. Unstoppable.
Aoife bends slightly, adjusting the waistband of her pants, and my gaze tracks every movement.
I should be thinking about what’s coming.
About where we’re going. But all I can think about is her.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing Aoife as a tool to wield against Ruairi.
I stopped seeing her as an enemy’s sister, as a dangerous gamble.
I fell for her.
And now, watching her, that realization is a slow-burning weight in my chest. I should tell her. Should say the words. But not tonight. Not when she’s about to kill her own blood.
She lifts her head, catching my gaze in the mirror. A slow, knowing smile curves her lips. "Enjoying the view?"
I step inside, closing the door behind me as I move toward her. "More than you know."
Placing my hands on her waist, I let my fingers press into the fabric, into the heat of her skin beneath it. We’re both facing the mirror now, her body fitting against mine like she was always meant to be there.
My lips brush the shell of her ear. "You look fucking lethal. And it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen."
Her smile deepens, but a shadow passes over her face before she quickly schools her features.
"Seamus is waiting with the car," I murmur. "Are you ready?"
She turns toward the dresser, reaching for her heels with a quiet, deliberate grace. One by one, she slips them on, the final touch to a masterpiece already carved in perfection.
Straightening, she meets my gaze. "I’m ready."
The ride stretches out in silence, thick and brittle as glass. Aoife stares out the window, her reflection ghosting against the darkened glass, distant and unreadable. Her hands rest carefully in her lap, fingers still, but the tension in her shoulders betrays her.
Every so often, her jaw tightens, the slightest crack in an otherwise perfect mask. She’s bracing for tonight. We both are.
Seamus’ eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, but neither of us says a word. This is her moment.
He hasn’t always approved of her. Hasn’t always trusted her. In the beginning, he warned me against getting too close, constantly reminding me exactly who she was and where her loyalties would lie. But lately, something’s shifted. There seems to be an unspoken truce between them.
Maybe it’s because he’s seen what I have. That Aoife’s more than Ruairi’s sister, more than a wildcard in this war. She’s ready to claim what’s hers. And tonight, she will.
We pull into the castle grounds, the tires crunching over gravel, the shadows swallowing us whole. This place was built in blood. Held in power. Steeped in history that would make lesser men tremble.
I’ve killed here. Men have begged for mercy inside these walls, their voices swallowed by the stone. Their ghosts don’t haunt me. I made my peace with death a long time ago. Tonight, another name will be added to this place. But it won’t be by my hand.
I step out first, opening her door. Aoife hesitates for only a second before slipping her hand into mine. Her fingers are steady. Her grip is strong as we walk inside together.
She doesn’t rush. She walks with purpose, each step echoing off the ancient walls, the weight of history pressing down but never breaking her.
Aoife was never meant to be kept from this world. Not by her father. Not by Ruairi. And certainly not by me.
We stop in the armory, the scent of oil and steel heavy in the air. Aoife steps forward, her fingers brushing over the hilts of the knives and the barrels of the pistols. She’s not simply choosing a weapon. She’s choosing how her brother’s life ends.
She pauses, and something shifts in her eyes.
Slowly, she reaches down and lifts a dagger.
It’s sleek, sharp, and perfectly balanced for a precise, deliberate kill.
She tests the weight in her palm, tilting it under the dim light, watching the steel glint as if she can already see it buried in flesh.
I step closer, my voice low. "A gun would be cleaner."
Aoife doesn’t look at me as she continues to turn the blade over as if seeing how it belongs in her hand. "I don’t want clean."
Exhaling, I reach out, my fingers brushing against her wrist. I’m not seeking to stop her. Just grounding her. "A gun would be safer."
When she finally meets my eyes, there’s something dark and steady in her gaze. "I’ve already agreed to have him restrained. There’s nothing he can do to hurt me.”
I exhale, my fingers tightening slightly around her wrist. "I think I don’t like the risk."
She gives me a look that’s half challenge, half curiosity.
I nod toward the holstered guns on the wall. "One bullet and it’s over. No struggle. No second chances."
No way for her to feel it happen.
"I don’t want it to be over in an instant,” she says, her voice quiet but filled with certainty.
The air between us tightens. There’s something intoxicating about the way she says it, about the conviction in her voice.
A better man would tear her away from this edge. He’d take the weight from her hands, carry the blood himself. He’d find another way. But I’m not that man.
All I can do is watch as she steps into the dark and pray there's still something left of her when the night is over.
Darkness greets us as we enter the room above the pit. Aoife lifts a hand, signaling one of the guards. A switch is flipped, and the pit floods with light.
Ruairi flinches, throwing up an arm to shield his eyes from the sudden glare. The movement costs him. A raw, hacking cough wracks his thin frame, leaving him hunched and gasping.
When he forces himself upright, there's still a ghost of defiance in his eyes—fading, desperate, as if he needs to believe he’s still dangerous even as his body betrays him.
"Come to gawk, Evie?" his voice scrapes out, raw and splintered, more ruin than threat. "Or have you finally found your spine?"
Aoife doesn’t flinch as I take my place beside her, my hands slipping into my pockets.
Ruairi’s gaze shifts to me, narrowing. "Well, well. If it isn’t O’Sullivan. I would’ve thought you’d have the balls to do this yourself. But I see now, you’re nothing more than a coward using my sister to get her hands dirty for you."
"This isn’t my war," I say flatly, gesturing to Aoife. "She’s the one in control. She decides what happens next."
For the first time, something flickers behind Ruairi’s eyes. Doubt. Wariness.
Seamus and two other guards descend into the pit, carrying a chair on the lift.
Ruairi stiffens. "What the hell is this?"
No one answers him. The guards grab him by the arms, hauling him up and forcing him into the chair. He fights them, but he’s weak and is no match. The restraints loop around his wrists and ankles, cinching tight.
Still, he tries to fight, his voice hoarse with rage. "You think this makes you powerful? Sitting up there while your boyfriend’s men tie me down like a fucking dog?"
I study her, searching for signs of hesitation. She’s quieter than usual. Too still.
Leaning in, I ask, "You sure about this?"
"Yes,” she answers without looking at me.
"Please, take the gun," I murmur. "Make it quick."
Finally, she turns her head, meeting my gaze with something cold. "No. I need to feel it, Eamon. I need to feel his life leave him."
Something stirs deep in my chest. Admiration? Concern? A mixture of both?
I exhale slowly, nodding once. "Then I’m with you," I say, my voice low. "I'll be your anchor tonight. And when it’s over, I’ll be the one who pulls you back from the edge."
The last guard ascends from the pit, leaving only Seamus behind with Ruairi.
Aoife and I step onto the lift. The mechanism groans to life, the walls of the pit closing in around us, the air growing heavier with every passing second.
I nod to Seamus, who stands rigid against the far wall. Aoife hadn’t wanted anyone else down here. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe, deep down, she knew she shouldn't carry this alone. Relief threads through me as we descend. She wasn't as far gone as I'd feared. Not yet.
When we reach the bottom, Ruairi lifts his head, his eyes burning with fury as they land on her. His sister. His executioner.
Then he shifts his eyes to me. “Why are you with her?” he demands.
"To bear witness." My voice is smooth, final, dark with the weight of inevitability. "The blade is already swinging, the pit already open. You were dead the second she let you fall."
Ruairi’s jaw tightens, his breath ragged.
Aoife steps forward, dagger in hand.
I watch her, unshaken, unwavering, every bit the queen she was always meant to be. I’ve never seen anything more powerful.