Would he ever even raise a hand to Keira? Harm any of his children?
No. Never.
But with what little I know about Cormac, it seems he'd be one to do that and more.
He's the man who orchestrated my father's murder. Who's trying to dismantle this family, shit, he's even branded his own daughter like cattle, all for some twisted ritualistic crap.
If she is telling the truth, and I have no reason to believe she is yet, then my answer is simple, she knows too much. And from the looks of her, she fought pretty damn hard to get away.
Or this could all be an act.
Dammit!
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, the screen lighting up with Declan's name.
I should answer it and tell him what’s sitting tied to a chair in our basement.
But I don’t. I let it go dark again.
I’ll tell him later, when I understand what the fuck this is.
Right now, I need the truth.
My father always taught me you need to learn the enemy better than they know themselves, and right now we are not even one hundred percent sure why Cormac is after us.
That's what I need to find out first.
I turn and look at the closed door, with her on the other side of it.
Maybe she can tell me. She has to know why Cormac is even after us in the first place. Like absolutely knows. Not the theories we've pieced together from old files and rumors, but the actual truth.
The file Octavian and Keira brought me sits in my office upstairs. Donoghue Massacre, but that doesn't mean anything to us yet. There has to be more.
I push off the wall and head back inside.
She's exactly how I first saw her, head down, shoulders hunched. She doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't flinch at the sound of the door closing behind me.
I cross the room, grab the chair I kicked earlier, and drag it back across the floor. She winces at the sound but still doesn't lift her head.
I sit.
For a long while, neither of us speaks.
I study her. The torn robe. The bruises and cuts across her skin. The blood dried on her knees and feet. The brand on her forearm, that damned letter.
"That M," I say finally, pointing to her arm. "Why?"
She lifts her head slowly, like it takes all her strength. "My father has all the women branded. Ordered by the Morrígan, he says."
"He really believes all that fucking nonsense?" I ask.
She stares at me. “You have no idea.”
I lean forward, "Do you?"
She hesitates, not with fear but with memory. I see her eyes move from side to side, thinking.
Then she shrugs slightly. “Not until after my mother died, I guess. And…”
