“Tell Kieran to let him go. But tell him we’ll be in touch.”
Brennan doesn’t question it. He just nods and disappears into the room to take care of the mess I left for him.
I head back outside, needing to breathe in some fresh air.
My pulse is still thrumming in my ears, and my thoughts are racing, which isn’t good. I need to keep a clear head if I have any chance of finding out who is behind this.
Whoever it is, they’ve been manipulating all of us like puppets, and so far, I’ve let them.
But not anymore.
From now on, if anyone is going to be the puppet master, it’s going to be me.
Chapter Five
CIARA
I glanceat the clock on my nightstand and groan.
It’s barely six in the morning, and my bedroom is still cast in darkness. It’s too early to be awake, but I know there’s no point in hoping for sleep to come. My thoughts haven’t stopped racing since that night, and no matter how many breathing exercises I try, nothing seems to quiet my mind. So, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling instead.
It’s been two whole days since Max died and I stormed into that warehouse, ready to shoot a man in order to save my best friend. But it feels like decades, mainly because Ronan is still barely talking to me. At least not about things that matter.
He’s spent much of his time locked away in his office. When I hover outside the door, he is usually pacing, followed by the clink of a glass.
We all have our different ways of coping, but I hadn’t expected him to be like this. I thought after spending the night together, all would be forgiven, but the sex seems to have only made him angrier.
I get why he’s upset; I really do. I didn’t tell him about what Max did, and I ran off to help Mila without explaining everything. But I tried. I tried to talk to him that night, and hewouldn’t let me get a word out. He shut me down before I could say anything.
“Urgh.” I throw back the sheets.
I’m exhausted from being stuck in my own head, so I drag myself out of bed and throw on a sweatshirt over my pajamas.
My limbs feel heavy, and my eyes sting from a lack of sleep, but lying in bed won’t fix anything. Coffee might.
As I head downstairs toward the kitchen, I pass Ronan’s office and hesitate outside.
The door is closed, but light filters through the crack at the bottom, so I know he’s in there.
Part of me wants to knock on the door and extend a hand. But the other part of me, the bruised, exhausted, and prideful part, tells me not to. Forcing Ronan to talk will just make things worse. I miss him, but I have to be patient.
He’ll come to me when he’s ready.
Ignoring the ache in my chest, I head into the kitchen to make myself coffee.
I’m halfway through grinding some beans when my stomach churns, and my mouth fills with saliva.
“Oh, God.” I dump the coffee grounds in the bin and run to the sink, starting to dry heave.
The last few days have affected me a lot. This nausea has been kicking my ass. And it’s even reacting to the coffee now.
It probably doesn’t help that I’ve barely eaten either, but the thought of food has me wanting to throw up. So, I bypass the coffee and settle on making a mug of ginger tea in the hopes of calming my anxiety.
The kettle whistles loudly as I hunt through the cupboard for the tea. After pouring in the hot water, I wrap my hands around the mug and breathe in the steam, letting it warm my skin.
I’m just sliding into a chair at the kitchen table when soft footsteps approach.
I glance up to see Mila padding into the kitchen, wearing my old college sweatshirt and a pair of pink and white plaid pants. Her eyes are bloodshot and hollow-looking, and her dark hair is limp around her face.
