I know every creak in this house, every trap and every hidden stash.
The antique sideboard is three meters away, but it might as well be a mile as I fumble the handle with shaking fingers.
The drawer sticks, like it always does. I nearly rip it off the rails yanking it open, but the movement brings back the oxygen in my lungs and the world sharpens again.
The knife is right where Lena left it.
It's not a pretty thing, just a black-handled, stubby combat blade, curved and hungry.
Liam sees the knife.
He's still towering over Niamh, who's groaning and trying to get her legs under her, but his eyes are on me now.
I don't even have to show him the blade.
The intent is enough.
He takes a step back.
I raise it.
I grit my teeth and try to look like I could use it, because if that's what buys Niamh or me thirty seconds of air, I'll do it.
But then the front door slams open with a sound that stops every heartbeat.
Ruairí moves in, big as a storm cloud and twice as dark.
His trench coat is soaked through andtrailing rainwater, eyes burning, fists clenched.
I've seen Ruairí angry before, but this is something different—a cold, bright clarity, like the world has shrunk to a single, unwavering point.
Lena is on his left, wet hair unravelling from its braid, face pale but focused, gun already up and steady.
She sweeps the room, registers the chaos, the blood, the broken glass, and then fixes on Liam, finger tight on the trigger.
Killian and Fiachra are behind them, less dramatic but no less lethal.
They fan out in practiced formation—Killian cutting off Liam's retreat to the window, Fiachra heading for the sideboard and then flanking toward the fireplace.
Liam tries to get up, but Fiachra is on him in a blink, pinning his arm and driving a knee into the back of his thigh.
There's a brief, ugly struggle where Liam thrashes, landing a wild punch to Fiachra's jaw, but Fiachra absorbs it and responds with a headbutt that leaves Liam glassy-eyed and bleeding from his nose.
Blood pours, fast and wet, splattering Niamh's boots and the carpet.
Niamh pulls herself upright, hands shaking, face twisted in pain but also in a kind of grim satisfaction.
This isn't her first fight, and it won't be her last.
Ruairí looks at me, then at Niamh, then at Liam, making a cold inventory of damage and threat.
His gun is still holstered, but everyone in the room knows it wouldn't take much to change that equation.
He says nothing until he's standing over Liam, who's been forced to his knees, head swimming, both nostrils flooding red.
"You tried to touch my wife," he says then, voice even.
"You don't come back from that."
