3. Maeve #3
My throat tightens. Possession from Declan has always been a dangerous thing, less promise than sentence, but hearing it directed toward Cillian feels different.
There is no demand in it, no expectation that the boy immediately accepts him.
It is simply Declan placing himself between his son and every possible harm.
I recognise the instinct because I have lived inside it for six years.
Cillian studies him, cautious but no longer frightened.
His shoulders have lowered, and his hand has released my coat.
“What if someone tries to hurt me?” Cillian asks. His tone is almost conversational now, though his eyes remain fixed on Declan. “Mam says hiding is sometimes smarter than fighting.”
“Your mother is right.” Declan glances at me, and the admission nearly deserves documentation. “You hide, you stay quiet, and you wait for someone trained to fight.”
Cillian considers that answer. “Would you come?”
“Always.” Declan says it without pause. “Anyone who tries to hurt you will have to survive me first.”
Niamh exhales and moves toward the kitchen, apparently deciding tea is required before the room drowns in male intensity.
She stops beside me and squeezes my arm, her silent way of checking whether I am holding together.
I am not certain. Watching Declan with Cillian feels like seeing a life that might have existed if fear, pride, and manufactured evidence had not ripped it away.
Declan should have held him as a newborn, heard his first word, and endured the month when Cillian refused to eat anything that was not yellow.
I should not be standing here studying their similarities like a stranger assembling proof.
The grief comes quietly, which makes it harder to defend against.
Cillian bends and retrieves the fireplace poker.
“If you hurt Mam, I will hit you with this.” He plants the end against the floor with all the authority available to a child whose pyjama trousers are covered in tiny dinosaurs.
“Aunt Niamh says the knees are useful because big men forget to protect them.”
Niamh pauses in the kitchen doorway. “That lesson was intended for emergencies.” Her mouth twitches as she looks at Declan. “Interpretation remains a developing skill.”
Declan’s gaze moves from the poker to Cillian’s face. I wait for irritation, but something close to admiration appears instead. “Your grip is wrong.” He gestures toward the iron handle but does not touch it. “Keep your hands farther apart or the first strike will twist your wrist.”
Cillian adjusts his grip. “Like this?”
“Better.” Declan’s mouth almost curves. “Aim for the side of the knee, not the front. The front is stronger.”
I stare at him. “You have known your son for approximately four minutes, and you are already improving his assault technique.”
“He threatened me first.” Declan rises slowly, though his attention remains on Cillian. “I respect initiative.”
The lights go out.
Darkness swallows the room so completely that the fire becomes the only light, throwing red movement across faces and walls.
Declan changes before I can breathe. The man speaking to his son disappears, replaced by the Reaper who has survived wars by acting before everyone else understands danger has entered the room.
He catches Cillian around the waist and pulls him down behind the stone hearth.
Ronan drops the weapons onto the rug, keeps Declan’s gun, and signals his men toward the windows.
Niamh ducks behind the kitchen wall without being told, one hand reaching beneath her cardigan for the small pistol I gave her in Boston.
I crouch beside Cillian, but Declan places his body between us and the windows.
Outside, an engine roars through the trees.
“Stay down.” Declan’s voice is low and absolute as he looks toward Ronan. “Perimeter report.”
“East camera is dead, and the rear sensor went down three seconds before the power.” Ronan checks his phone, but the screen shows no feed. “This is coordinated.”
Cillian presses against my side, his small body rigid.
I wrap one arm around him and feel his heart racing beneath my palm.
Declan reaches back without looking and places his hand over Cillian’s head, shielding him below the stone lip of the fireplace.
The gesture is instinctive, almost unconscious.
My son looks up at the hand resting in his hair, then at the man protecting him.
Whatever fragile question might have followed is drowned by the first burst of gunfire outside.
The front windows explode inward.
Declan throws himself over us as glass tears across the room.
Ronan fires twice through the broken frame, and somebody screams beyond the trees.
Niamh shouts from the kitchen that movement is coming from the rear.
One of Declan’s men returns fire from upstairs, each shot deafening inside the stone house.
Cillian buries his face against my coat, and I tighten both arms around him while Declan covers as much of us as his body can reach.
The room fills with smoke, shattered plaster, and the bitter smell of gunpowder.
Another burst punches through the front wall.
I hear the crack before I see the damage.
A bullet tears through the window above Cillian’s head.