Cillian nods. Doesn’t look away from me.
“Come on,” he says softly. “You should see the bedroom.”
He leads me down a hall lit with soft underfloor lighting. No harsh lights, no shadows—just a warm glow guiding us forward. He opens a door at the end. The master bedroom is darker, quieter, almost sacred. And the moment I step inside, I freeze.
The view—It’s breathtaking.
A massive curved window spans the entire wall, overlooking the river and the city beyond. The water glows with reflections of bridges and towers. The skyline is a soft, sleepy blue-black, dotted with gold. It’s like standing inside a photograph. Or a dream. The king-size bed sits directly in front of the glass, white sheets rumpled just enough to look inviting.
“This is…” I shake my head. Words fail.
Cillian’s voice is quiet, almost unsure. “I wanted a place where the world felt… far away.”
I turn to him. He looks tired. Worn down. Still bloody. Still beautiful.
“And you brought me here,” I say.
His jaw flexes. “I brought you here.”
Before I can respond, Rouge calls from the other room: “All clear! No movement within three blocks, cameras online, alarms set. We’re locked down tight, Captain.”
Cillian gives a small nod but keeps his eyes on me. The city lights glitter behind him. Dublin glowing like a promise.
We don’t linger. We can’t. The world is still too close behind us.
Rogue appears in the doorway like a shadow that decided to put on a leather jacket. He jerks his chin toward Cillian’s arm. “That needs closing.”
Cillian’s eyes flick to me, unreadable, then he nods once. “Kitchen.”
I follow them down the short hall, my feet sinking into the plush carpet Cillian pretends not to care about. The kitchen is all marble and soft lighting, the kind of place where normal peopledrink tea and listen to the radio at sunrise. Not patch up bullet grazes at two in the morning.
Rogue drops the med kit onto the island with a clatter. “Sit.”
Cillian takes the stool without arguing — which tells me exactly how much pain he’s in. He braces his good hand on the counter, jaw locked tight.
I move automatically, opening cabinets, searching for anything familiar. There’s food here, real food, stocked like he planned for this. Forme. My hands find olive oil, garlic, a bundle of fresh herbs. Something simple. Something warm. Something to make the air smell like something other than blood. The knife feels steady in my grip as I slice. Behind me, Rogue threads a needle like he’s threading a curse.
“This’ll sting,” Rogue mutters.
“It already does,” Cillian grinds out.
The needle pierces skin. I hear the breath Cillian tries not to let escape. I keep chopping.
“Stop tensing,” Rogue says.
“I’m not tensing.”
“You’re bending the bloody stool,” Rogue snaps.
I glance over my shoulder. Cillian’s knuckles are white against the edge of the counter, eyes flaring with pain he refuses to acknowledge.
“You could’ve let me bleed to death,” Cillian mutters.
“You’re welcome,” Rogue replies dryly.
Despite everything, my lips twitch. The pan heats. Butter melts. Garlic hisses. The scent unfurls through the room, softening the sharp edges of adrenaline that haven’t quite let me go.
Cillian’s breathing slows. Rogue’s hands move with brutal efficiency. And for the first time in hours, something like calm slips into the space between us. Then Cillian’s phone vibrates on the counter.
