25. Keira
KEIRA
T he knock comes just after evening, too polite to be one of ours.
Three slow raps, not urgent, not panicked, just subtle enough to matter.
I close the ledger on the table, shift the papers into a neat stack, and take my time rising.
I don't speak as I cross the hallway, just tilt my head to the guard once I pass her and let her know I'll answer it myself.
The man waiting on the other side of the door stands exactly as I remember him—straight-backed, well-dressed, a little too aware of his own silhouette.
His coat is navy, sharp-lined, expensive enough to look accidental, and his shoes are polished to a shine that doesn't belong in this part of the city.
He holds a leather folder under one arm and lifts his eyebrows when he sees me, as if this whole thing is a coincidence he finds mildly amusing.
"Keira," he says, and his voice is that same deceptive mess that lured me years ago.
Except he doesn't have that kind of hold over me any longer.
"Liam."
I open the door wide enough to let him in, but I don't step back until the pause stretches just long enough to remind him that this house still belongs to me .
"I came alone, Keira."
Only then do I turn and walk away, leaving him to close it behind him.
He does, softly, then follows without speaking until I lead him into the sitting room.
He surveys the space with a quiet sort of confidence, taking in the high ceilings, the old-fashioned hearth, the chairs, and how everything has been redone to make this home a headquarters for Ruairí and me.
He doesn't sit until I do, and even then, he takes the arm of the couch rather than the cushion, as if positioning himself for a better angle.
The folder rests neatly on his knee, untouched. "I wasn't expecting company," I say, folding my hands in my lap.
He smiles, all polished teeth and cunning charm.
"I thought I'd take the chance while the gates were still open. Word is, you're about to go back behind steel and stone."
"Word travels fast."
"It always does when you're the headline."
I let the silence sit for a moment before I answer.
"You came to remind me of that?"
He leans forward slightly, not enough to invade my space but enough to be noticed.
"I came because you're alone, Keira. And sooner or later, even the best fortress caves in from the inside."
I keep my eyes fixed on him.
"I'm not as alone as you think."
"Really?"
He tilts his head.
"Where is Ruairí now? Wicklow? Half the city believes he left you for good. The other half believes you pushed him out to keep control of the estate. Neither version ends with allies knocking on your door."
I don't respond.
There's no value in feeding the myth he's come to peddle.
Liam continues, voice level, the kind of tone people use to justify clean cuts.
"Your people are scattered. Your family's finances are being picked apart by every man with a calculator and a grudge.
The O'Duinns have already moved on three of your holding companies, and the only reason they haven't moved on you directly is because they're still arguing over what your value is.
You're an asset, Keira. That's how they see you.
And when you stop being one, this place will go quiet real fast."
He waits for a reaction.
I don't give him one.
He shifts the folder to the side, taps a finger against the spine.
"I'm not here as an enemy. You know that. I've always respected your ability to keep the ship afloat longer than anyone expected."
He pauses, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to me.
"But we both know the clock's ticking. And I'm offering you a way to leave with something intact."
"What do you want?"
He smiles again, but it's smaller this time, almost private.
"I want you to understand that I am the only one who can get you out of this."
I lean back in the chair, let the weight of that statement land exactly as he meant it to.
He doesn't speak again for several seconds, giving the impression that the next part is delicate, even though I know it's been rehearsed.
"Everything's already in motion," he says.
"The council knows you're a liability. They've seen the surveillance.
They know about the pregnancy. They know Ruairí is unpredictable, and they're banking on your breaking before he does.
But if you come to Brussels with me—just for a few weeks, just until the city stabilizes—I can protect the legacy.
The money. The title, if you still want it.
I have access to the accounts. I know how to shield the paper trail.
You wouldn't have to play queen in a castle full of traitors anymore. "
He lets the pitch settle before adding the part I knew was coming.
"There would be expectations, of course."
I don't move.
"Say it."
He lifts a shoulder, not quite a shrug.
"You wouldn't be under house arrest. But you'd be with me. There's a difference between safety and independence. And I'm not offering both."
For a moment, the room goes completely still.
Even the radiator quiets.
His gaze stays on mine.
He doesn't touch me, doesn't make a crude joke, doesn't cheapen it.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
"You're offering to take me in," I say slowly, "if I sleep with you and give up the fight."
He says nothing.
I let the silence grow until it's too heavy to ignore.
"Tell me something, Liam. How many women have you offered a safe bed while the fire spreads outside the door?"
Liam's face blotches and becomes an ugly shade of red.
"You think they'll protect you?" he counters, his voice dropping.
"You think that bodyguard of yours is going to come running? Or that Ruairí will appear like some fabled avenger when your world starts to crack?"
I hold my ground.
"You made your pitch, Liam. You should have left it there."
He steps closer, slow and measured.
"You said no once before. I can live with that.
But this time, you're being a fool. You need to understand what it costs to say no to men like Padraig and me.
There are rules, Keira. This city has always run on rules.
You break one, and the consequence comes with it.
And right now, the rule you're breaking is the one that kept you alive this long. "
There's no weapon in his hands, but I can see it in the tightness of his shoulders, in the line of his jaw.
He isn't here to reason with me anymore.
He's here to take whatever scraps of power he thinks he can still wring out of this house, and if that means hurting me, he's already made peace with it.
I shift my weight slightly, enough to prepare if he lunges.
I have a pistol upstairs.
One in the sideboard in the dining room.
Neither are in reach.
I keep my back to the fireplace and my eyes on his hands.
He closes the space between us in three strides.
I don't flinch.
Not until I see it—his hand coming up fast, not to strike, but to grab.
He reaches for my arm, and I twist away, but he catches the sleeve of my shirt, dragging me sideways with more strength than I expect.
My shoulder slams against the edge of the mantel as I twist to ensure he doesn't hurt my stomach.
Pain blooms sharp and immediate.
That's when the door crashes open.
Niamh barrels through, no hesitation, no attempt at negotiation.
Her boots hit the floorboards hard, and her shoulder drives straight into Liam's side, knocking him off balance.
The impact is solid and violent.
He staggers, releases me, and she doesn't stop.
She drives him backward with the full weight of her body, forcing him toward the armchair with an almost feral exactness.
Her elbow comes up under his chin, her knee slams into his thigh, and for a moment it looks like she might win outright.
But he recovers fast.
That's the thing about men like Liam and all the other mudlarks who come up through the back alleys of Dublin—they're not built for long games or cleverness but for pure animal stubbornness.
He lashes out, grabs Niamh by the hair, and yanks her back.
She swears, a short and vicious word I've only ever heard her use during a car bomb scare and twists out of his hold.
For a split second, I see the whites of Liam's eyes—panic, animalistic and immediate—and then he throws a fist straight into Niamh's ribs.
The sound is flesh on flesh.
She doubles over, but even as she does, she rakes her nails down his forearm and draws blood.
He backhands her, open-palmed, and she crashes into the low table by the fireplace.
The tray of whiskey and crystal decanters tips and smashes, glass and amber everywhere.
Niamh goes down, tangled in the mess.
Liam, breathing hard, whips around and points at me.
"You—" He's got nothing left to say.
There's no plan, no backup.
Just me and the knife I haven't grabbed yet.
I stumble upright, hand to my throat, and lurch for the hallway cabinet.
I know every creak in this house, every trap and every hidden stash.
The antique sideboard is three meters away, but it might as well be a mile as I fumble the handle with shaking fingers.
The drawer sticks, like it always does. I nearly rip it off the rails yanking it open, but the movement brings back the oxygen in my lungs and the world sharpens again.
The knife is right where Lena left it.
It's not a pretty thing, just a black-handled, stubby combat blade, curved and hungry.
Liam sees the knife.
He's still towering over Niamh, who's groaning and trying to get her legs under her, but his eyes are on me now.
I don't even have to show him the blade.
The intent is enough.
He takes a step back.
I raise it.
I grit my teeth and try to look like I could use it, because if that's what buys Niamh or me thirty seconds of air, I'll do it.
But then the front door slams open with a sound that stops every heartbeat.
Ruairí moves in, big as a storm cloud and twice as dark.
His trench coat is soaked through and trailing rainwater, eyes burning, fists clenched.