Liam spits blood onto the rug.
There's a sick, defiant energy in his eyes but it's fading fast, eclipsed by the realizationthat there's no cavalry, no last-minute escape.
He tries to laugh, but it's a ruined, watery sound.
Ruairí crouches, bringing his face level with Liam's.
He looks at him like a scientist examining a failed experiment.
The room is so quiet, I can hear the rain guttering in the downspouts outside.
"You're going to tell me exactly what Padraig's next move is," he says.
"You're going to give me names. Details. Timetables."
He reaches out, almost gently, and wipes a smear of blood from Liam's cheek.
"And if you don't, I'm going to start taking things from you one inch at a time until you forget what it felt like to be safe."
I can see the moment Liam's pride cracks—the way his eyes dart from Ruairí to Lena to Fiachra, then to me, searching for some sign of mercy.
There's nothing.
My own hands are trembling so hard I nearly drop the knife, but I keep it up, pointed at his heart.
Lena hasn't even blinked.
"You think I scare that easily?" Liam tries, voice breaking high and thin.
"You think I don't know what comes next?"
Ruairí stands.
"No," he says.
"But you're weak. And weak men always break when the pain doesn't stop."
Fiachra hauls Liam to his feet, holding him steady as Killian ties his hands behind his back with a cable zip.
Niamh leans against the table, blood running from a cut on her hairline, but her posture is still straight, her eyes sharp.
"We use him," Ruairí says, glancing at me.
"He's bait now."
I nod.
"Let's bleed him for every name he's got."
They drag Liam to the dining room.
The long table there has been cleared.
It will serve the purpose.
An hour later, the dining room looks more like an intelligence bunker than the place we once ate Christmas supper.
Liam is tied to a chair, wrists secured behind his back with zip cable, one eye already swelling shut, his mouth bloodied fromFiachra's last corrective blow.
