Chapter 9
Cillian
Her head rests on the arm of the sofa. Her eyes are open, fixed on Ciar’s face, but they’re glassy with exhaustion. She won’t last. She’ll burn herself out, and when the next wave of shit hits, she’ll be no good to anyone.
Fuck that.
“Go to bed,” I order. It’s not a suggestion.
“I’m fine.” Her voice is a raw whisper.
“You look like shit, and you’re a liability like this. Go. Sleep.” I don’t offer comfort. I offer a command. “Axl needs you.”
“What about you?”
“I always need you, but Axl is more needy right now.”
She hesitates, a war playing out in her tired eyes. Pride against exhaustion. She knows I’m right. She finally gives a stiff, defeated nod, rising stiffly. I settle into the armchair, my gaze fixed on Ciar. She bends over me and kisses me, deepening it seductively.
“Later,” I murmur.
“Boo,” she says, but moves away.
The sway of her hips is a promise she just made with that kiss. The exhaustion rolling off her is a worry, but she doesn’t break. She bends, but she doesn’t fucking break.
I settle deeper into the chair, my body aching from the morning’s fight.
The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by Ciar’s shallow breathing.
He’s a fucking mess, but he’s alive. That’s all that matters.
Iain and Alex are upstairs, plotting. Axl is about to get lucky.
And Sorcha... Sorcha is the eye of this hurricane, and my job is to make sure nothing gets close enough to touch her.
I let my eyes drift shut, but I’m not sleeping. I’m listening. Every creak of the old house, every sigh of the wind outside. Robert Gannon is a loose end Cian will tie up, but there are others. Liam Ahearne being the main problem. This isn’t over. It’s just a lull in the storm.
My hand rests on the hilt of the blade tucked into my waistband.
It’s a familiar comfort. The quiet is a fucking lie.
It’s the breath before the scream, the moment before the blade sinks home.
Every shadow in this room is a potential threat, every creak of the floorboards a new enemy.
I’m wired tight, a spring coiled for violence.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, slow and heavy. I don’t move, but my senses sharpen, cataloguing the sound. It’s Iain. He enters the room, his face carved from granite in the dim light. He looks at Ciar, then at me.
“How is he?”
“Breathing,” I answer. It’s all that needs to be said.
He nods, his gaze lingering on his son. There’s pain there, but it’s buried deep under layers of control. He’s a MacMahon, bred for this shit. “They picked the wrong family to fuck with.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. A promise of retribution.
“They did,” I agree.
He looks at me, a flicker of respect in his hard eyes, before he turns to leave. “You did well today, Sullivan.”
I shrug. It’s not about doing well. It’s about surviving. It’s about keeping them breathing. My job is simple. I’m the wall they stand behind. I will fucking crumble to dust before I let anyone get through me to them again.
This is an abject failure and one that will live with me forever. He leaves me to it. The praise sits like poison on my tongue. I don’t want his respect. I want a fucking time machine. I want to go back to this morning and be faster, harder, better.
I failed.
The word is a blade twisting in my gut. I’m the enforcer. The one who sees the threats before they materialise. The one who ends them before they can breathe. And I missed this. I let them get in.
My gaze drifts to Ciar. His stillness is a fucking accusation.
The quiet doesn’t soothe me. It sharpens me. I run through scenarios in my head. Liam Ahearne’s first move. The board’s reaction when they find out about the deed. Robert Gannon’s inevitable, messy end.
“Go think somewhere else,” Ciar’s gruff voice startles me out of my thoughts. “It’s too loud in here.”
“Tough shit. Should’ve thought about that before you got shot with a crossbow.”
“Ouch. Never going to live that down, am I?”
“As long as you live, who cares?”
“Aww, getting sentimental on my arse.”
“Shut up and go back to sleep.”
He grunts. “Sleep is for the weak.” He hauls his body up to a sitting position and reaches for the whiskey that Sorcha left on the coffee table with an audible whimper.
I shake my head at him. “You are impossible.”
He downs the whiskey in one go, the movement stiff, his jaw tight against the pain. The empty glass hits the table with a clatter that makes me flinch. He’s a fucking machine, running on pure stubbornness and spite. It’s what keeps him alive. It’s also what’s going to get him killed one day.
“Better,” he grunts, sinking back against the cushions, his eyes closing.
“Don’t get comfortable,” I warn him. “The second you pass out again, I’m tying you to that sofa.”
He just smirks, a ghost of his usual arrogance, his eyes still shut. “I’d like to see you try.”
I don’t respond. I just push myself out of the chair, my own aches a dull, constant reminder of my failure. I walk over to the window and stare out.
“How are you doing?”
The question catches me off guard. “Me? I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m standing, wasn’t abducted and still fighting. I’m good.”
“Has anyone even asked you?”
I don’t answer. I keep my back to him, staring out at the grey fucking sky. “Don’t need anyone to ask.”
“Still bullshit,” he says, his voice raspy but firm.
I turn from the window, my hands flexing at my sides. “What do you want me to say, Ciar? That I’m pissed? That I let them get the drop on us? That I should have been faster, better?” The words come out in a low snarl, a confession I didn’t want to make. “There. You happy?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me, his eyes dark and knowing. He sees the cracks. He always fucking sees them. “It’s not on you,” he says finally.
“The fuck it isn’t,” I spit back, the anger a shield. “It’s my job.”
“It’s our job,” he corrects me, the words a quiet command. “And we’re still here. Still breathing. And they didn’t get to Sorcha. That’s a win for today.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate this feeling, this raw edge of failure that’s scraping me hollow. I walk back to the chair and sink into it, the fight draining out of me, leaving an ugly, tired ache. “They didn’t get to Sorcha,” I repeat. Damn fucking right they didn’t.
“If this happens again—”
“It won’t,” I growl.
“If this happens again,” he grits out. “You forget about me and Axl. You go to her and you don’t fucking leave her side unless it’s in a body bag. Are we clear?”
The words hang in the air between us, an oath sworn in blood and exhaustion. It’s not a fucking request. It’s an order. One I would follow without him having to say it, but hearing it seals the pact. She’s the queen. We’re the fucking wall.
“We’re clear,” I bite out.
That’s all he needs. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and he sinks deeper into the cushions, his eyes closing again.
I stay in the chair, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest as he dozes off, still sitting up. The silence settles again, but it’s different. Not thick with my failure, but with the cold, hard weight of that promise.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. Axl and Sorcha are upstairs, hopefully sleeping. The dads are probably plotting a fucking coup. And I’m here, on watch. It’s what I do. It’s what I am. The enforcer. The shadow. The one who cleans up the mess.
This morning was a fuck-up. A brutal lesson. But it won’t happen again.