Once. Twice.
The screen lights up, casting a cold glow across the marble.Darragh.
My stomach drops. Rogue goes still mid-stitch. Cillian doesn’t breathe. I turn fully, knife still in my hand, garlic on my fingers, heart pounding like a warning drum. He stares at the screen. At his father’s name. At the man who will twist this night into whatever lie best suits him.
Cillian’s jaw flexes. He reaches for the phone. Cillian swipes the screen and lifts the phone, expression smoothing into something cold, neutral, unreadable.
“Daid.”
His father’s voice pours through the speaker like aged whiskey and poison. Low. Smooth. Elegant. A serpent in silk. “Cillian,mo bhuachaill,1” Darragh says, as if he hasn’t spent years sculpting his life like a weapon. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Rouge’s line went dead. There was gunfire—are you hurt?”
Cillian’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. He lies with the same ease he breathes. “I’m fine,” he says. “Rouge too.”
A soft exhale crackles through the phone, like relief practiced in a mirror. “And the girl?” Darragh asks, casual, careless. “Has anyone found Siobhán?”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. Rouge pauses mid-stitch. Cillian doesn’t blink.
“No,” he answers. “She vanished. I’ve no idea where she ran.”
My pulse kicks, hot and vicious. I know he has to lie—but the words still scrape.
“Good,” Darragh says lightly. “Better for everyone if she stays lost.”
I grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles ache. Darragh continues, voice never rising, never cracking. He’s ice made human. He always has been.
“I’m sure you saw for yourself,” he says, “that the shooter was hers.”
Cillian goes utterly still. Rogue looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. My stomach flips—rage and disbelief blending into something molten.
Darragh keeps going, unbothered. “I warned you, Cillian. She’s a siren. Always has been. Uses that voice, those eyes. Lures men in and pulls them under. You can’t trust her.”
Heat crawls up my throat. I feel sick. I feelfurious.Cillian’s face doesn’t move, but something dangerous flickers beneath the surface.
“You’re saying Siobhán hired someone to kill me,” he says, tone flat.
“Who else would want you dead tonight?” Darragh replies smoothly. “She disappeared the moment the bullets started flying. Convenient, isn’t it?”
I want to scream. I want to tear the phone from Cillian’s hand. I want to rip that lie out of Darragh’s throat. Instead, I stand there, garlic burning in the pan, heart hammering, listening to the man who shaped my childhood twist reality with the ease of a conductor leading an orchestra.
Darragh sighs. A showy, weary sound. “Come to the manor tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll meet after her fourth performance. The venue is public, family-friendly. No risks. We’ll discuss our next move then.”
Cillian glances at Rogue. Then at me. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll be there.”
“Good lad.”
A click. The line goes dead.
My hand is still on the counter when Cillian sets the phone down. Barely. I’m shaking too hard.
“Thatbastard,” I breathe. “Calling me a siren. Saying I’d—” My voice breaks, fury slicing through it. “Saying I’dhire someone to kill you?”
Cillian stands, slow and steady, Rouge finishing the last stitch and taping the dressing down.
“Siobhán,” he says, reaching for me.
“No.” I back away, heat buzzing under my skin. “He stood there tonight—looked me in the eye—and then lied like that? Liedabout me?”
Cillian closes the distance, hands coming to my arms. “I know. I know, dove.”
