Chapter 32 #3
First step down, I paused. A flicker on the other side of the balcony terrace drew my gaze.
A windowed door moved and reflected a shimmer of the chandeliers above and the colorful lighting shining upward from the colonnades.
Immediately, I lurched in that direction and weaved between guests, aiming for the staircase.
Apologies slipped out at each bump of a shoulder or check of a hip.
Halfway there, the opposing crowd grew and shoved me to the edges of the promenade.
I bobbed my head above the throng for a way forward that didn’t involve waiting them out, only to catch sight of Devin the Shiner—Shiner because the man fought in the ring more than any other of the O’Leary men and sported a black eye at least once a week.
He had rotated in a few guard shifts since I moved in with Cillian and had been following Liam around this evening.
He stood stock-still against the ornate wooden trim around the windowed door I’d seen move.
Relief sighed through me instantly, and I waited until the crowd thinned before pushing through, with Arthur and Paulie not far behind.
Voices filtered through the glazed glass doors. None elevated. None flustered.
“Is Cillian in there?” I asked Shiner, pointing at the door.
The giant boxer nodded.
“With Liam? Just the two of them?”
Another nod, and I huffed a pent-up exhale of fear to the ceiling.
“Good.” I flapped a hand in front of my face to cool down the sudden flush of heat. This irrational fear was new, and I needed to get a handle on it quickly. I patted the space behind my hip for one of the strategically placed accent chairs. “Good. I’ll just wait here.”
Before I could get another nod, Shiner’s eyes flashed above my head, his brows contorting, and I followed their trajectory. I got one glimpse of the raging bald, ginger-bearded blur charging my way before a thick hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed.
“You,” a crazed voice barbed in my ear. The hand tightened and jerked me about. “You’re the reason she’s dead. You killed her, didn’t you? Didn’t you!”
I clawed at the hand. My fingernails dug into skin.
I pulled and tugged, but with each passing second, numbness spread and tremors set in.
No, I begged my body. Not now. This wasn’t the time for a panic attack.
I kicked out at a shin, a groin, a knee.
I tried self-defense tactics I knew like the back of my hand.
My strikes and hits had no effect, my limbs weak, locked up, and shaking.
“Why? Why do you get to live but not her?”
He drove us back against the door. It rattled at my back, and I croaked for air.
Arms, hands, fingers pulled at me, at him.
We flopped one way, then the other. The pressure deepened, then lightened, then strained worse than ever.
Yells filtered around me as my lungs burned and my ears rang.
Pressure built inside my head, thumping and thudding.
My vision blurred, more spots dotting it with each blink.
Shadows fogged in and out of sight. Pain rushed from my throat to my lungs.
I focused on it. It pulled me from the panic enough to reach for my heel and tug, releasing the poison vial within.
Suddenly, the pressure was gone, and I collapsed to the ground.
Air rushed in and scorched my throat. I coughed and coughed.
Tears rushed in a continuous stream down my chin and over my hand pressed against my chest, where I held the intact and unused vial.
Sounds poured in a muddled cacophony. Hands wrapped around me, and I shook against them.
Until I smelled him: cardamom, leather, and musk with a hint of my own floral scent.
I blinked up at Cillian’s face as his features crept into focus. His short trimmed beard, his sharp dominant jaw, and his ferocious blue eyes.
“Alice.” He grappled me to his chest. “Talk to me.”
I smacked a fist against him.
“S’il te plait.” Please. I panted through each word. “Arrête. Donne moi une minute.” Stop. Give me a minute.
“You need to speak English for me, sweetheart. I can’t understand you.”
“Give me space,” I muttered through gasped sobs and shoved at him to get away. “I need air.”
His touch fell away from me, and I covered my face with a hand. I had no idea who could see me, who couldn’t, but the noise…it screamed all around me. Whispers and jeers, music and laughter. Muffled male yowls—of pain, of anger. I couldn’t focus enough to tell.
“You’re safe now.” That no-nonsense whip of Cillian’s voice wrapped around me tight. “Paulie and Devin’ll stay with you. I have to deal with this. I’ll be right back. I swear. Real quick. Then we’ll go home.”
I waved him off with gusto to prove I wasn’t weak, but the moment his footsteps thumped away and vanished behind the hard slam of a shaky door, my arm collapsed to the ground.
Behind closed doors, voices rose and exploded, but there were no gunshots. No heavy reek of blood wafted from them either. In the moment, I was too in shock to care. It didn’t hit me until the next day who exactly attacked me.