Fiachra nods.
"Could be everyone."
Only at this point do I allow the exhaustion to take over.
My head swims and I take a wobbly step.
Ruairí notices and is with me in a second, holding me in his arms as I finally let go.
18
KEIRA
The house infirmary I wake up in is white in a way that feels offensive.
Not the blue-white of clean sheets or the pearlescent fog of first light, but the institutional, eye-watering blankness of a surface that exists only to reflect and to be scrubbed.
I surface into it slowly, every sense lagging—the burnt ozone tang of disinfectant.
The warp and thrum of fluorescent tubes overhead.
The ache in my wrists, my jaw, my stomach, all competing for top billing.
A heart monitor ticks somewhere, and the sound is impossible to tune out.
The air is so cold, my lungs threaten to reject it.
I turn my head and the world lurches, pins and needles popping through my scalp as the drugs or the sleep or the memory tries to catch up.
I am on a cot, not a hospital bed, but the difference is mostly branding.
My hands are exposed—no IVs, no restraints—but my left wrist is wrapped in a fresh bandage, crisp and so tight it pulses.
There's a mint-green blanket half-pulled up to my chin.
Lena is slumped in a chair two feet from the bed, knees tucked under, head canted at an angle that would paralyze alesser neck.
She's wearing the same jeans as yesterday, or last week, or forever, and her jacket is doubled as a pillow behind her head.
Her face is slack, mouth parted, arms crossed like she's bracing for impact even in sleep.
A navy fleece blanket is draped over her from knees to shoulders, but it's mostly off, pooling at the floor where her boots rest.
She's been here for a while.
Maybe all night.
Visible through the glass panel in the door, Fiachra stands with his back to the room outside, arms folded, head slightly down.
He wears a black turtleneck and dress slacks, like he's on his way to a funeral.
His sidearm is visible at his hip, the holster newer and cleaner than the rest of him.
He looks to be waiting for something.
My throat is a strip of raw sandpaper.
I run my tongue over my teeth, taste ammonia and antiseptic, and try to speak.
