“Good girl,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flash — that look that could cut a man in half. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t drip like that.”
She reaches for me, ignoring the warning in my stance. Fingers brush my sleeve, find the tear where the bullet grazed. I hiss when she presses too hard.
“Jesus, Siobhán—”
“Hold still.” She rips a piece of fabric from the hem of her ruined gown, using it to press against the wound. Her hands are gentle but firm. “You need stitches.”
I almost laugh. “You think we’ve time for that?”
Her jaw sets. “You’ll make time if I say so.”
There it is — that spark. The one that’s been killing me since the day I met her. She looks like a goddess dipped in blood and defiance. My ruin wearing silk.
I grab her wrist, stilling her hand against my chest. “You don’t tell me what to do, dove.”
Her chin lifts, eyes narrowing. “Then stop bleeding on me.”
Christ almighty.I should be furious. I should be thinking about the men upstairs, the traitor who’ll pay for this, the plan unraveling. But all I can think about is her — the smell of her skin, the blood drying on her collarbone, the way her pulse matches mine. She’s my weakness, my war, my penance. And I’ll burn Dublin to the ground before I let anyone touch her again.
She ties the last strip of silk tight and sits back, wiping her hands on her ruined dress. “This will have to do until we get to the safe house.”
Above us, the gunfire’s long gone silent. Somewhere far off, a door slams. We should move. Rouge will be waiting. But I can’t seem to make myself stand.
“You should rest that arm,” she says softly.
“I’m not resting while you’re bleeding.”
She looks down at her torn dress, at the faint scratches along her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”
“Siobhán,” I say, her name coming out rough, broken, holy.
When she looks up, it hits me like it always does—like the first punch of a fight.God, she’s beautiful.And I’m so bloody tired of pretending I don’t want to ruin her again.
I reach up, brushing my thumb under her jaw where blood’s dried in a faint line. “Tá tú dochreidte,1” I whisper.
She stills beneath my touch, a tiny breath catching between us—one of those fragile, dangerous sounds that saysdon’t move, don’t speak, don’t ruin it.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb. For a second, neither of us breathes. The fire throws gold against her throat, the shadowslicking over the pale skin there. There’s a smear of blood near her collarbone, mine or hers, I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to taste it.
She blinks slowly, lips parting. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me,” she whispers.
I smile, sharp and quiet. “That’s because I do.”
Her hand twitches in her lap. She’s trying not to move, trying not to give me what I already see in her eyes—the want, the ache, the memory of how I used to have her.
I lean closer, close enough to feel her warmth brush the air between us. “You’ve got blood on your skin,” I murmur.
“Then don’t look at it,” she breathes.
