“I shot it into the ceiling. I'm not here killing anybody.” My hands move over him. “Unlike that bloody sod who came after you with afucking pipe.” I keep pressure on the wound, my cardigan already soaked through. Thirty seconds. Sixty. The bleeding has to slow.
“Fuck. Okay. Okay.” Possible internal bleeding. Concussion for certain. And the head wound is still pumping blood under my hands. “Okay, we need to move you. Can you?—”
I touch his shoulder, and he makes a sound low in his throat, agonized, and I have to swallow the bile that rises in my chest. Shoulders shouldn’t look likethis.
I turn to Ciarán. “Call the medic. Cavin, can you stand?”
He tries—because even half conscious, bleeding and broken, he's too stubborn to stay down. He tries to lever himself up with his good arm, wobbles, and falls heavy like a shot elephant.
“Easy.Easy.” I get under his good shoulder, taking as much of the weight as I can. Christ, he's heavy, all muscle and bone and dead weight.
Ciarán's face is white. “Ciarán, help me.”
He takes Cavin's other side, carefully avoiding the shoulder. Between us, we haul him to his feet. Cavin's legs barely hold him. His head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel him shaking.
“Declan’s come,” Ciarán says. “Got yer text.”
“Right. Get him to the office.”
Declan barrels toward us and helps me carry Cavin.
“Some man came at him with a pipe,” I tell Declan when he appears, grateful he can help carry him. “Hit him right in the head.”
“Ciarán says you shot the gun.” Declan's eyes flicker to me, then back to Cavin.
“Aye.”
Wedrag him through pure carnage. The place is wrecked—overturned tables, broken glass crunching underfoot, abandoned drinks scattered across the floor. My bare feet slip, and I don't even think about what it might be. Someone's phone is ringing. The telly's still playing, showing a football match like nothing happened.
We lower him onto the couch in the office, and his face goes gray.
“Get the first aid kit,” I tell Ciarán. “This is a fucking fight ring. They've got to have something.”
Ciarán looks at Cavin, who manages a slight nod, then disappears.
I grab the whiskey off the shelf—the good stuff—and pour it over my hands. They're shaking now, the delayed reaction setting in and the adrenaline fading, leaving me hollow and nauseous.
The whiskey stings the cuts on my palms, but I watch it turn pink and think, distantly,this might stain.
Can't fall apart. Not yet.
I turn back to Cavin, and in the office light, I see the full extent of it. The gash on his head is deep, at least ten centimeters long, and bleeding profusely. His left shoulder sits wrong, the joint visibly displaced beneath the skin. Bruises are already blooming across his ribs like dark flowers. And when he breathes, I can see how he favors one side.
Definitely a concussion. Or worse.
He could have… died.
That hits me like a physical blow. I stifle a sob. My knees go weak, and my stomach rolls. I'm going to be sick.
He could have died right there in front of me.
“Erin.” His voice is rough. “You're alright, lass.”
Even half dead, he's worried about me.
“And you're not, and I'm sorry. This is going to hurt.”
He grunts, rolling his eyes. “Not my first time.”
