3. Maeve #2
Declan lowers his gun and slowly releases the poker.
He looks at Cillian as if everything else in the room has vanished.
I have seen Declan face armed men, Crown kings, and evidence that shattered the life he thought he understood.
None of it stripped him as bare as the boy glaring up at him now.
Cillian’s resemblance is merciless at this distance.
The same green eyes, the same stubborn mouth, even the same slight tilt of the head when he refuses to be intimidated.
Declan’s breathing changes, one controlled inhale that does not quite disguise what the sight has done to him.
He returns his weapon to its holster and raises both hands where Cillian can see them.
The Irish king, feared across continents, surrenders to a child wearing one sock.
“Cillian, it is all right.” I step around Declan and crouch, opening my arms. “These men are with me.”
Cillian drops the poker and runs into me hard enough to knock me back on one heel.
His arms lock around my neck, and I bury my face against his hair while relief tears through every disciplined part of me.
He smells warm, sweet, and real. I check his shoulders, his face, his hands, searching for injuries even as he protests by squirming.
Niamh lowers the knife only after Ronan holsters his weapon completely.
My aunt looks exhausted but unharmed, which means I may postpone killing anyone for several minutes.
Cillian pulls back and touches my face as if checking that I survived the journey.
The tenderness of it hurts more than fear.
“You said you would only be a few hours.” His accusation carries the solemn disappointment of a magistrate addressing a repeat offender. “It was two sleeps.”
“I encountered delays.” I wipe the chocolate from his cheek with my thumb and attempt a smile. “New York remains committed to making travel unpleasant.”
Cillian glances past me at Declan. His arms stay around my neck, but curiosity begins fighting fear. “Is that the dangerous man?”
Every armed adult in the room becomes intensely silent.
I close my eyes for half a second and consider all the gentler phrases I could have used during years of difficult questions.
Powerful would have been acceptable. Complicated might have bought time.
Instead, I chose dangerous because it was true, and children remember truth with the vindictive accuracy of court transcripts.
Declan absorbs the description without flinching.
Niamh watches him with the kitchen knife still hanging at her side.
Ronan gestures for his men to continue clearing the house, although I suspect he mostly wants them elsewhere before this conversation draws blood.
“Yes, that is Declan.” I keep one hand at the back of Cillian’s neck and turn so they can see each other. “He is your father.”
Cillian becomes completely still. He has known Declan’s name since he was old enough to ask why other children had fathers collecting them from school.
I told him Declan did not know about him, which is true.
I told him Declan lived far away and had dangerous work, which is also true.
I never told him that Declan chose his empire over us because that would have been my interpretation rather than a child’s fact.
Nor did I tell him about the execution order that made me run.
Children should not inherit their parents’ hatred before they are old enough to decide what deserves it.
“You are Declan O’Rourke?” Cillian releases my neck but keeps one hand fisted in my coat. He looks Declan over slowly, from polished shoes to silver-touched hair. “You are older than the picture.”
Declan’s eyebrows draw together. The remark appears to offend him more than the fireplace poker did. “Your mother has a picture of me?”
“I had research materials.” I stand and place Cillian beside me, keeping my hand on his shoulder. “Do not turn this into a romantic discovery.”
Cillian continues studying him. “Mam said you did not know about me.” His voice loses some of its confidence. “Is that true?”
“It is.” Declan does not approach, although every line of his body looks pulled toward the boy. “If I had known, I would have come for you.”
“For me or Mam?” Cillian asks the question without guile, unaware that he has located the precise wound between us. His fingers tighten in my coat. “Because she said you were angry with her.”
Declan’s gaze lifts to mine. “Both.” The single word carries enough weight to alter the air, but he keeps his attention on Cillian. “I would have come for both of you.”
Cillian considers this with the serious expression he usually reserves for arithmetic and suspicious vegetables. “Mam said you are dangerous.” He glances at Declan’s coat, clearly aware of the weapon hidden beneath it. “Are you?”
“Yes.” Declan gives the answer immediately. He does not smile, soften his tone, or disguise himself as something safer. “I am dangerous.”
Niamh makes a low sound and places the knife on the mantel.
She looks at me as though I have brought a live explosive into her borrowed sitting room.
The criticism is unnecessary because I am painfully aware of what stands near the fireplace.
Declan could have lied, and part of me wishes he had chosen a gentle version of the truth for their first meeting.
Another part respects him for refusing. Cillian has spent his life surrounded by carefully edited answers.
Perhaps one honest monster is less damaging than another comforting deception.
“Do you hurt people?” Cillian asks. He moves half a step away from me, not closer to Declan, but the distinction still matters. “Aunt Niamh says people carry guns because they expect to use them.”
Niamh folds her arms. “I also said we do not ask armed strangers personal questions until they have surrendered their weapons.” Her expression remains fixed on Declan. “Some lessons require repetition.”
Declan removes the gun from beneath his coat with two fingers and passes it to Ronan.
He then takes a knife from his sleeve, another from behind his back, and a smaller weapon from inside his boot.
Each one goes into Ronan’s increasingly crowded hands.
Cillian’s eyes widen with every addition.
I should be horrified that Declan arrived to meet his son carrying enough steel to equip a small rebellion.
Instead, dry disbelief rises through me, familiar and almost comforting.
“Anything else?” I look pointedly at his coat. “Perhaps a grenade hidden somewhere sentimental?”
“That depends on your definition of sentimental.” Declan removes a final blade from beneath his watch strap and gives it to Ronan. “I am now unarmed enough for conversation.”
Cillian stares at the collection. “You had four knives.”
“Five.” Declan nods toward the one Ronan has tucked beneath his own arm. “Your mother distracted you during the second.”
A spark of interest breaks through Cillian’s caution. He looks at me, mildly betrayed by my participation in concealing weaponry. “Why do you need five?”
“Because six becomes uncomfortable.” Declan crouches slowly, bringing himself closer to Cillian’s height without closing the distance between them. “And yes, I hurt people.”
Cillian’s interest fades. He glances up at me, then back at Declan. “Bad people?”
“Usually.” Declan rests one forearm across his raised knee. “Sometimes people who made themselves my enemy.”
“That does not mean they were bad.” Cillian’s answer comes quickly, his small face tightening with disapproval. “It only means you did not like them.”
Declan looks at him for a long moment. Something shifts behind his eyes, not anger but recognition.
I have challenged Declan with almost those exact words, though usually with fewer clothes and considerably less patience.
Cillian has inherited his father’s appearance and apparently my inability to leave an argument alone.
The combination should terrify civilisation.
Instead, pride warms my chest before I can stop it.
“You are right.” Declan’s voice becomes quieter. “Being my enemy does not automatically make someone bad.”
Cillian’s gaze sharpens, encouraged by the concession. “Do you hurt children?”
The question cuts through the room without mercy.
Declan goes so still that even his expression empties.
Behind him, Ronan looks away, granting his king the only privacy available.
Niamh’s arms loosen across her chest. I watch Declan absorb the question and understand what Cillian is truly asking.
Not whether Declan hurts unknown children somewhere beyond this house.
He wants to know whether the dangerous man kneeling before him could ever become dangerous to him.
He wants to know whether my fear should become his. I hate that he has reason to ask.
“No.” Declan’s answer is controlled, but something rough lives beneath it. “I have never hurt a child.”
Cillian looks down at the poker near his bare foot. “Would you hurt me if I did something bad?”
“Never.” Declan leans forward slightly, then stops himself from reaching out. “There is nothing you could do that would make me hurt you.”
Cillian lifts his eyes. “You do not know me.”
“I know you are mine.” Declan’s voice carries the quiet certainty that has ended wars inside rooms no larger than this one. “That is enough for today.”