“I had a chaperone,” I protest. “Maris must’ve gone up to the front for something.”
“She already chewed herself out for that,” he says. “No need for you to join in.” He tilts his head, listening.
Raised voices filter down the hall.
One of them is unmistakable.
A string of Irish curses, sharp and furious.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Bran closes his eyes briefly. “Kael,” he says.
The door bangs open a second later.
Kael walks in like a storm in a tailored coat.
His dark hair is a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through it since he got the call. His eyes go straight to me, raking head to toe, cataloguing every visible bruise, every tube and wire.
For one terrifying heartbeat, I think he’s going to cry. Then he sees Bran.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
“You,” he snarls.
Oh, good. We’ve reached the homicide portion of the evening.
“Kael—” I start.
He ignores me. In three long strides, he’s across the room, fisting a hand in the front of Bran’s shirt and yanking him up out of the chair.
Bran lets it happen.
He doesn’t raise his hands. Doesn’t shove back.
He just stands, shoulders loose, letting Kael get in his face.
“You had one job,” Kael hisses. “One. Job.”
“Gallagher,” Jack says sharply. “Back off.”
“Stay out of it, Brady,” Kael snaps, not taking his eyes off Bran. “You’re the one who brought State in to play games with my family. I’ll talk to my man.”
“I can take it,” Bran says quietly. “I knew this was coming.”
“What did you think would happen,” Kael bites out. “When I warned you not to so much as look at her wrong?”
The air thickens.
Bran doesn’t flinch.
“I remember,” he says.
“And yet,” Kael says, voice dropping, “here we are. She’s in a hospital bed ‘cause you let that bastard get close enough to touchher. And I hear you’ve been—” his lip curls “—sleepin’ with heron top of it.”
Color floods my face.
“Maybe we don’t have this conversation in front of the nurse call button,” I say. “Or my literal body.”
