by Fox, Nicole
The night has that breezy, uplifting, slippery quality about it. It doesn’t do anything to solve my problems or improve my mood. But where it can’t solve, it comforts.
I look up at the night sky and marvel at the wealth of stars twinkling overhead. One streaks past—a shooting star, offering wishes.
Unfortunately, I stopped wishing on stars a long time ago. Never did me much good anyway.
I look down instead at my arm, counting the individual scars that form their own constellation against my pale skin.
I used to wear them like a badge of honor. A testament to my bravery.
But now I see them for what they really are: a consequence of my cowardice.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I see a little fenced-in patch up ahead in the garden, so I wander in that direction. It’s as good a destination as any.
I’m at the low barrier when I hear a purring off to the side. Turning, I find a lithe tabby cat staring at me with big brown eyes.
“Hey,” I croon, crouching down and beckoning the feline forward. “Hey, buddy.”
I can tell from his silver whiskers and scarred nose that he’s a fierce old tomcat. But given his luxurious coat and the shiny collar around his neck, he clearly belongs to someone.
“Someone here?” I wonder, looking back at the house.
He bounds gracefully over the fence and looks back at me as though asking me to follow him.
“I was coming in anyway,” I chuckle, strangely comforted by his presence.
I follow him over the fence. Only when I’m on the inside do I notice the two gravestones staring straight at me.
I stiffen a little, wondering who’s been buried out here.
It’s a pretty little spot. Calm and peaceful. But it’s not very ceremonious. Matter of fact, it feels like the gravestones have been hidden away so that no one can see them.
Maybe that’s the point.
I move forward and squint down at the two stones. My body goes cold when I read the first name.
“Cillian O’Sullivan,” I breathe. “What the fu…?”
The second name doesn’t explain things any better.
“Sean O’Sullivan…”
I glance over at the cat, but his answers are only purrs, and if they have any meaning, it’s lost on me. I sink to my knees on the soft bed of grass in front of the two graves.
The ginger tabby pads over to me and butts his head against my hand. I pet him absentmindedly.
“Can you tell me what’s going on here, little fella?” I ask. “Because I sure as hell have no clue.”
He gives me another purr, so I scratch his neck harder. I still don’t know what he’s saying, what he’s trying to tell me. But it’s nice to just sit with another living being who isn’t trying to hurt my body, my heart, my soul.
That’s rare for me.
* * *
I don’t know how long I sit there. Probably a good half hour or so.
Which is why I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel a shadow just behind me.
“It’s only me.” I catch a glimpse of Cillian’s blond hair glowing in the moonlight as he lowers himself down onto the grass beside me.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You didn’t make a sound.”
“Actually, I did,” he replies. “You were just way off somewhere else.”
The cat jumps into Cillian’s arms. I can’t help but smile.
“Old friends?” I guess.
Cillian chuckles. “I’m the one who brought him to the compound. I found him as a kitten. The night I said goodbye to Sean, actually.”
“Wow. So he’s…”
“Old,” Cillian finishes my sentence. “Very.”
“Still going strong.”
“He’s definitely been looked after well,” Cillian says, poking the cat’s fat belly teasingly. “Not everyone who has lived in this house can say that.”
I glance towards the headstones. “Is that why I’m sitting in front of your grave?”
Cillian gives me a dark smile. “It was Da’s way of coming to terms with the way we left,” he explains. “I think it was easier for him to think of us as dead.”
“That’s…”
“Insane?”
“That’s one word for it,” I concede.
“We left in disgrace,” Cillian continues. “In Da’s mind, I betrayed the family. Sean abandoned it.”
“Is that really what he thinks?” I ask.
“Da feels I should never have gone up against Brody Murtagh. That rich prick may have been a dimwit, but he was a dimwit with power. Pick your battles—it’s one of the first rules you need to master in this life.”
“If you had listened to your father,” I say, realizing what he’s telling me, “I would have been raped.”
“Yes. Which is why I didn’t listen.”
“Do you regret it?”
He fixes me with a soulful stare. “Not for a second.”
The fervency and the ferocity with which he replies takes me off guard. There’s no hesitation, not even the stammer of one.
“Why?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious.
“Why?” he repeats. “You would have been raped, Saoirse. You would have been passed around like an object.”
“Cillian,” I say softly, “you came back for me and I turned you away. No one would blame you for regretting defending me that day.”
“I would have,” he snarls, his expression hardening at the mere suggestion that regret is a reasonable emotion for him to feel. “It was the right thing to do, Saoirse. And not just because I loved you.”
Loved.
The word jumps out at me as though he’s screamed it.
First, I’m floored that he’s admitted to having ever loved me at all.
But then my joy simmers…
Loved.
Past tense.
Which is completely understandable. Even if we hadn’t parted the way we had, it has been thirteen years. No one can blame him for moving on. Least of all me.
And still, it feels like a dagger’s been lodged between my ribs.
“Did I ever thank you?” I ask quietly, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “For giving up your entire life for me?”
“There’s no need to thank me,” he sighs. “I didn’t do it for the gratitude.”
The funny thing is… I believe him.
He looks so fucking beautiful sitting next to me. Even shrouded in shadow and half-light, the brightness of his hair and eyes can’t be cowed.
“That’s new for me.”
“What is?”
“People doing nice things for me just because,” I explain. “Every man who has ever helped me has expected something in return. And that includes my father.”
“How is old Padraig?” Cillian asks.
“I think this is the longest I’ve gone without thinking about him,” I admit. “And I feel horrible for saying this out loud, but it’s been kinda great.”
Cillian smiles empathetically. “Yeah?”
“Ever since my mother died, I’ve been his caretaker. I’ve had to look after him. To fight off all the creditors that showed up on our doorstep demanding their money. To pry the bottle from his hands night after night. I’ve defended him through it all.”
He keeps looking at me. Saying nothing. Just inviting me with those honest eyes to confess things I’ve never confessed before.
“And yet,” I continue, “every time I had a fight with Tristan, he’d tell me to stay quiet. ‘Don’t fight back. Let Tristan have his way.’” I scoff, but it’s more bitter than haughty. Laced with sadness I’ve carried for a decade. “Even in the small things, it’s like he’s scared to take my side.”
Cillian’s voice cracks out like a whip. “He doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.”
I shake my head. “The irony is that I love him anyway. Love is like a drug in that way. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”
“It’s that much harder when it comes to parents,” Cilli
an says. “I know. I’ve got my own father issues.” He gestures to his own gravestone. “As you can see.”
It’s my turn to smile sadly. “I’m sorry.”
Cillian shrugs. “Don’t be,” he says. “Da being who he is made me who I am. I used to think I had nothing in common with him. Counted myself lucky.”
He pauses and strokes the cat behind the ears.
“But lately,” he murmurs, “I’m realizing I’m more like him than I thought. It’s not as bad as I always feared, either.”
“No?”
“He’s strong,” Cillian answers. “He’s tough. He’s steadfast in his beliefs and opinions. And so am I.”
“Oh, I know that much,” I reply. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. And I’ve come across a few.”
He laughs. “Yeah, well, it takes one to know one.”
I shoot him a glare, but he just chuckles.
Silence envelopes us slowly. I rack my brain for ways to break it.
Silence is dangerous when it comes to Cillian and me. We’re got too much history, too much chemistry between us. All that energy starts spinning around in the silence and I can feel it build and build.
It’ll keep building until it breaks…
Or until we do.
“Saoirse…”
I try not to look him in the eye. But that gaze is fucking hypnotic.
It’s a beacon, pulling me forward, entrapping me and heating me through to the core in a way I know is dangerous.
But it just feels too damn good to resist.
“Yeah?”
“I miss this,” he says simply.
“Which part exactly do you miss?” I ask, trying to keep things light. “Fighting with me tooth and nail?”
“Talking to you,” he clarifies, not letting me off the hook that easily. “You were the first person I opened up to right away. I’ve never felt so free with anyone else so fast.”
I let that sink in for a moment.
I’m not sure if he expects me to respond. But if he does, he’s going to be disappointed.
Being vulnerable in front of him is the last thing I want to do.
And admitting how I felt about him back then… Well, it’s a stone’s throw away from admitting how I feel about him now.
I can’t do that.
“I know we didn’t know each other long,” Cillian continues. “But that doesn’t mean we didn’t get to know each other well.”
“You really think so?” I ask, unable to help myself.
He reaches out through the warm night. I freeze as his fingers graze my cheek.
He looks down at me as though he’s studying my face, searching for the secrets I refuse to give up.
“Do you?” he counters.
I hesitate. I open my mouth to say something. To say anything. Maybe it’ll be the truth; maybe I’ll just keep running from an honest confession.
But I don’t get the chance.
Because just then, Cillian leans in a little.
And any words I might’ve been about to say die on my lips.
My body moves instinctively towards him. In that heightened moment, all the arguments I’ve built up in my head come tumbling down.
It feels like there’s nothing I’ve wanted more than another kiss from him.
Just one more, I tell myself.
And then I’ll go back to my own personal hell and live out the rest of my days with the memory of his kiss on my lips.
It’ll be worth it.
Just one more.
One.
Last.
Ki—
A sudden screech pierces the night like a needle. I recoil and stifle a scream. The cat hisses wildly and darts into the nearby bushes. Cillian is on his feet in seconds.
“What the hell—”
“It’s the alarm,” he rasps urgently, his eyes flying around the garden. “Stay close to me.”
“What’s happening?” I ask, getting to my feet with him. “What alarm? What does that mean? Is someone here?”
They’re stupid questions, I know, but my brain is short-circuiting from the roller coaster of emotions and now this.
Cillian doesn’t bother answering any of them. He just grabs my hand and tugs me along in his wake as we sprint out of the fenced-in graveyard.
Up ahead, I hear a commotion. Pounding feet. The clack of metal—is that a gun? I don’t know. Fear and longing and a million other emotions I can’t name are surging up in me.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
I can only follow Cillian and hope to God this ends okay.
Two men turn the corner and I stiffen, but Cillian doesn’t react. “It’s okay,” he reassures me. “They’re my men.”
My men.
It seems he’s fallen seamlessly into a leadership role while he’s here.
Why does that frighten me?
Whatever the answer to that is, I let him pull me along as though I’m some helpless child.
“Rhys!” Cillian calls.
“False alarm, boss,” the man named Rhys shouts back. “There hasn’t been a breach.”
“Are you sure?” Cillian asks. His grip on my hand is painful now.
“Yeah. Someone delivered a package at the main gate. They got a little too close and it tripped the alarm,” he explains. Cool as hell, totally unruffled.
“A package?” Cillian repeats.
“Yes, sir. I’m going over to take a look now.”
“I’ll come with you,” Cillian says. At last, he releases my hand. But as soon as his touch is gone, I want it back. “Logan, why don’t you escort Saoirse up to her room?”
I whip around and glare at him. “Are you serious?”
He seems a little taken aback by my reaction. “Just humor me.”
“Not a chance,” I say with finality. “I’m coming with you.”
“Saoirse…”
“I’m coming, Cillian,” I insist. “You wanna waste time arguing with me or you wanna see what this package is all about?”
His jaw is set, but I can tell from his expression that he knows arguing is pointless. And we both know that whatever has arrived at the gates has something to do with me.
The coincidence is just too great.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But stay behind me.”
* * *
When we approach the gate, Cillian gestures one of the security guards forward. “Well?”
“It was dropped off by a reputed courier company,” the guard informs him. “They set it down at the foot of the gate and left. Didn’t ask for a signature or nothing.”
Cillian glances at Rhys.
“We’ve scanned the box,” the man says. “Didn’t pick up on anything. No explosives. No residue of gunpowder, either.”
Cillian nods. “Open the gates.”
The gates wheel open smoothly. I peer out from around Cillian’s back.
I’m not prepared for how massive the box is. It’s laid out horizontally, long and narrow. Almost shaped like a coffin.
Although surely that’s just my overactive imagination reacting to the stress of the last few days.
“Open it up,” Cillian instructs.
Rhys moves forward, accompanied by the man who had picked Cillian and me up from the roadside. Rory, I think his name was.
They approach the package with their guns drawn while two other men tear off the tape securing the top lid of the gigantic rectangular box.
They crack it open.
And at once, their faces drop into horror.
They hide it almost instantly. They’re trained men, I’m sure. Battle-hardened.
But for one moment, they looked like they’d locked eyes with the devil himself.
Cillian sees it, too.
“Stay here,” he tells me firmly. His tone says that there will be no arguing this time.
I’m okay with that, I think.
He walks forward a few steps ahead of me and takes a look inside. His back is to me so I c
an’t see his expression, but the rigid tension of his spine catches my attention.
Someone tries to stop me from approaching the box, but I shake him off violently and charge forward.
Three steps until I can see what’s in there.
Two steps.
One step.
I look down in the coffin…
“Pa?”
43
Saoirse
As soon as I see my father’s body lying in that coffin, his face white as a ghost’s, I scream.
Cillian’s arms wrap around me immediately, stopping me from getting any closer. He keeps whispering my name, trying to reel me in.
But all I can hear are my own screams. Loud and endless. Torn with grief.
That is, until my father’s body starts convulsing suddenly.
“Fucking hell,” I hear someone say. “He’s alive. He’s alive!”
That’s the last straw. My body, my mind, my heart… They can’t take this shit anymore.
I black out.
* * *
I wake up a little while later. Rhys is in the room with me, sitting guard in a chair by the door.
“Tell me what happened,” I beg as soon as my eyes open. “Tell me my father’s alive.”
He fills me in quickly.
As soon as I understand, my voice shifts. “Take me to him,” I order. “Now.”
He nods and stands to escort me out. My legs are shaky as I clamber out of the bed, but I power through the sensation and rush out of the room.
We move down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and to another room, one I hadn’t encountered on my walkabout this morning.
This one is beautiful. Too beautiful and too cheery for the rest of the austere O’Sullivan manor, as a matter of fact.
Pastel wallpaper on one side and large, arched windows on the other. The carpet covering the entire length of the floor is a happy floral pattern at odds with the other areas of the house.
My father, lying propped up in his makeshift gurney, gurgles unintelligibly as soon as I walk in. I hurry to his side at once.
“Pa,” I say gently, clasping his hand in mine. “Stop. You’re too weak. Just lie back and get some rest.”
He coughs, sending spittle flying everywhere.
