32. Liath
LIATH
Istared at Deargán as if we sat on opposite sides of a chessboard.
I needed a plan. A strategy to tease the truth out of him. I couldn’t just blurt it out like some hysterical girl demanding answers.
I forced my shoulders to relax against the chair and smoothed my dress over my thighs, slowing my breathing until it didn’t sound like I’d run here.
I lifted my eyes to his. “Do staff often leave without notice?”
His pen continued moving. “This is a demanding environment. It isn’t unusual for people to decide it’s not for them.”
“Not for them,” I repeated softly. “Or not safe for them?”
His eyes lifted, calm and unreadable. “Is there a particular staff member you’re concerned about?”
I let a beat pass, like I was weighing whether it mattered.
“O’Shea,” I said. “He wasn’t in the hall this morning.”
There was a small pause, his brows pressing together for the briefest second.
“He’s no longer employed here,” Deargán replied.
“That was quick,” I said, watching his face. “He was here last night.”
“Employment decisions can be made quickly,” he said. “Especially when standards aren’t met.”
My pulse kicked. “What standards?”
He set the pen down with deliberate care. “Professional ones.”
I leaned back slightly, like I didn’t care. “So he just packed up and left?”
“He won’t be returning,” Deargán said.
No explanation. No elaboration. Just finality.
I held his gaze, searching for something. A flicker. A crack.
There was none.
No guilt. No anger. No satisfaction.
Nothing.
That absence unnerved me more than rage would have.
I pushed anyway, because I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know.
“So, if O’Shea didn’t meet standards…” I said slowly, picking each word carefully, “if he… if someone… did bad things, bad things to girls here, over and over, and the authorities turned a blind eye… do you think that makes it okay to punish them?”
He didn’t answer immediately but his breathing shifted.
For a second I wished I hadn’t asked, because his silence felt loaded, like I’d touched something buried and it had stirred.
“There are systems for a reason,” he said at last. “And sometimes those systems protect the wrong people.”
His voice sharpened, not loud but edged.
“Sometimes they bury the truth.”
He leaned forward, as if the words had pulled him closer.
“And sometimes the only justice left is the kind you take yourself.”
His hand curled into a fist on the armrest, the tendons in his neck standing out.
I sucked in air on a gasp. He had done something to O’Shea. He’d practically confessed it.
“And if you knew?” he said, his voice dropping lower, growing rougher. “Knew that justice had been taken by blood and fire rather than mandated by law, would you turn against them?”
He looked at me then, really looked. Softer, he said, “Or would you hand him the knife?”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out. My pulse beat hard in my throat.
I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe around the heat rising in my chest, around the awful, corrupt relief coiling low in my belly.
“Would you trust me with it?” I asked, the words leaving me before I could stop them.
Silence stretched between us. Neither of us moved.
The air between us changed, tight as a wire pulled too hard.
Something had shifted and there was no turning it back.
I knew. Not what he did, but that he did something.
And he knew I knew.
The thought of Deargán hurting O’Shea should have horrified me. I should have been repulsed by the image of his strong, surgical hands wrapped around that bastard’s throat.
Instead, a dark, treacherous heat curled low in my stomach.
Deargán was a monster, yes. But he was a monster who guarded his door. And God help me, the most disturbing part of all was how viciously safe that made me feel.
At the allocated time for my next session, I stopped just short of Deargán’s door.
I could almost see him inside, sitting in that chair, waiting, expecting me.
But the thought of stepping in there and meeting his eyes made heat bloom low in my belly and shame crawl up my spine.
All I knew was that he had done something to O’Shea.
And now he was gaslighting me.
But I couldn’t trust myself around him.
Because I was afraid of what I’d feel if I looked at him too long.
I shuddered. It didn’t matter how much my stupid body reacted around him. He was dangerous. Too dangerous for me to keep playing games with.
I had to get out of his crosshairs.
I stood there for a long second, breath shallow, then forced myself to turn around.
I hurried to Dervla’s door and knocked, quick and sharp before I could change my mind.
“Derv,” I called softly, pressing my forehead to the cool wood. “Can I come in?”
Huddled in her bed minutes later, I told her everything. Well, almost.
I told her about Deargán actively gaslighting me, the missing time, the appearance of the tattoo, my missing month.
But I didn’t mention the night of the storm. Didn’t mention that my breath hitched every time he got near. Didn’t mention that he knew the shape of my face when I came.
Then I told her about O’Shea and how I suspected Deargán had done something to him to make him disappear.
Dervla turned white, stark against her jet-black hair. “That’s… The fucking sick bastard.” She clutched my hands. “What are you going to do?”
I let out a long breath. “If we confront him without proof, he’ll twist it. He’ll make us look unstable. You know he will.” I swallowed, forcing myself to think instead of feel. “We need something solid. Something we can use. Running at him with fists isn’t a plan. It’s suicide.”
Dervla stared at me, the whites of her eyes growing into rings around her pupils.
“Do you even hear yourself?” she hissed, even quieter now as if she were afraid the walls were listening. “He made a man disappear overnight. And you’re worried about proof?”
“You don’t know that,” I shot back, even though my stomach twisted.
She let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t be daft. We both know it.”
I didn’t argue. I did know it. At least saying it all out loud to Dervla made me feel less crazy. Like it wasn’t just all in my head.
Her gaze sharpened. “And if he did it for you, Liath… what does that make you?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Dervla leaned closer, voice dropping. “How the fuck are we meant to outmaneuver a man who’s already proven he’ll remove anyone who gets between him and what he wants?”
I swallowed.
“If he’s willing to bury a man for touching you,” she continued, eyes locked on mine, “what do you think he’ll do if you try to leave him?”
Her question echoed in my mind like a warning.
“Just get in and get out. In. And out. Quick as ye like,” Dervla muttered under her breath as we stepped into the dining hall, drawn there only when our hunger overruled our fear.
My fingers were threaded tight through hers, as if letting go would mean drifting into open water alone.
Dervla swore under her breath, something sharp and Irish and furious, and squeezed my hand so hard my knuckles ached.
“Don’t look,” she muttered.
Too late.
Deargán stood near the far wall, speaking to one of the orderlies, posture relaxed, coat unbuttoned, dark head inclined slightly as if the world moved on his time alone.
His eyes lifted, and they locked on me without hesitation.
“Shite,” Dervla muttered as we shuffled forward in the line with everyone else. “Maybe he won’t come over?”
I could feel his gaze like heat prickling all over my body.
Deargán pushed off the wall and walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze locked on mine with a dark, unwavering intent that promised he had no intention of letting my missed session pass.
“Fuck,” I hissed. “He’s coming.”
Dervla’s panicked gaze snapped to mine. “Run.”
I reached for the nearest bowl and tucked it under my arm without checking what it was. Dervla snatched a cup of fruit from someone’s tray, ignoring the protest from the owner.
We turned and walked too quickly toward the doors, trying to look casual and failing miserably.
In the hallway we broke into a run.
Behind us, heavy footsteps sounded on stone.
My pulse climbed into my throat. I didn’t dare look back, but I knew he was behind us, hunting me.
Dervla yanked me sideways down a narrow corridor before we reached the main stairwell. We slipped into a shallow alcove between two cold stone pillars, half-hidden by shadow and a stack of unused chairs.
My back hit the wall, the stone icy through my dress.
We stood there, pressed too close, breathing too fast, clutching our dinner scraps.
The footsteps grew louder.
Closer.
Then passed.
Only when the sound faded did I realize I’d been holding my breath.
Dervla leaned in, her mouth almost against my ear.
“We can’t hide forever,” she whispered.
Her words weren’t a warning.
They were a truth I didn’t want to face.
I told myself that switching to group therapy was strategic.
It wasn’t.
It was hiding.
Hiding the way a mouse believes the tall grass will save it from the hawk circling above.
Dervla, Fiona, Bláthnaid, and a few other patients were seated around the circle.
I perched on the edge of the cracked leather armchair like I might bolt at any second. My knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. Every small sound made my eyes flick to the door.
Dervla’s hand settled warm and steady on my knee.
“Hey,” she murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “You’re grand. He can’t get you in here.”
I forced myself to breathe in deep and slow, the way Deargán had once told me to when I was spiraling. The irony made my stomach twist. I let the air out carefully. My shoulders eased a fraction. My knee stilled beneath Dervla’s palm. My mouth was still dry as dust.
Dr. Callahan cleared his throat and gave me a gentle smile.
“Everyone,” he said in his soft voice, his delicate hands folded in front of him, “let’s welcome Rua to her first group session.”
The name hit me like a small slap.
Rua was what I was supposed to conform to. Rua was pliable. Manageable. Quiet.
I swallowed.
“Actually,” the word slipped out before I could talk myself out of it, “I prefer to be called Liath.”
The room went still, a small shift in the air as everyone registered what I had said.
Dr. Callahan blinked once.
For a heartbeat I thought he might correct me, might remind me of files and forms and whatever name they had stamped onto my chart.
Instead, he nodded.
“Okay, Liath,” he said kindly. “I can respect that. We are all allowed to embrace what we identify with. Go on.”
Something loosened inside my chest, just the smallest rush of hope. My spine straightened without me meaning to. My tongue felt like my own again.
Maybe in here I did not have to keep pretending.
Maybe in here I could just be Liath.
“Hello, everyone,” I began, my voice steadier now. “I’m Liath and—”
Bang.
The door opened, slamming hard against the stone wall and echoing through the still air.
Deargán filled the doorway like he was a storm sweeping in from outside, coat unbuttoned, hair rumpled like his fingers had been tearing through it.
His gaze swept the room.
It stopped on me.
Pinned me to my chair.
Heat pooled low in my belly and my nipples tightened beneath my thin dress as his scent-song roared to life in my mind, the cello drawn taut enough to snap.
“Dr. Deargán.” Dr. Callahan shot up, chair scraping. “As you can see, we’re in the middle of—”
“I’ll be taking over,” Deargán said, not blinking, not looking away from me, his voice cutting through Callahan’s protest like a blade through silk.
Callahan sputtered, “What? I wasn’t advised of this.”
Deargán crossed the room without breaking eye contact with me.
He placed a hand on Callahan’s shoulder and steered him toward the door as if he were nothing more than a child.
The entire way, Callahan kept protesting. “This is most unusual. Dr. Deargán, does management know—”
“You’re dismissed,” Deargán said, low and final, pushing Callahan out.
The door shut with a solid thud. There was a click as the lock slid home, metal on metal.
The walls seemed to draw closer and the air thickened, sticking to my ribs.
I was trapped.
The other girls shifted, uneasy, eyes darting between the locked door and Deargán as he turned back to face us.
To face me.
His gaze grazed over them like they were furniture.
When it landed on me, it anchored, dark and devouring, like he could swallow me whole and still demand more.
He stepped into the circle and stood directly opposite me so there was nowhere to hide, his shadow stitching me to the chair.
His smile unfurled, slow and dangerous.
“Now,” he said, voice quiet enough that it made the room hold its breath, “that we’re alone…”
The cello hummed like a noose in my throat.
“…let’s begin.”