“Five minutes,” I promise. “Just give me five minutes.”
She doesn’t answer. Just goes back to counting, rocking slightly.
Fuck.
I straighten, then turn toward the chaos?—
Seamus stands ten feet away, weapons drawn, scanning the area with lethal focus. His gaze lands on me, then drops to Erin. His expression doesn’t change, but I see the question in his eyes.
What the fuck?
“She was caught in the blast,” I say quickly. “Kavanagh’s daughter.”
“I know who she is.” Seamus’s voice is flat. Dangerous. “What’s she doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Convenient timing.”
“I know.” I scan the lot. “Where’s Bronwyn?” I ask, changing the subject.
Seamus’s face goes hard. “We don’t know.”
Ice floods my veins. “What do you meanyou don’t know?”
“She’s gone, Cav. Mam’s hysterical. Kyla found her shoe, but—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “We’re searching now.”
My vision tunnels. Someone’s going to bleed for this. Someone’s going to fucking scream. This wasn’t meant to happen.
A flash of red hair catches my eye—Garrett, pushing through the smoke, his usually smirking face gone white with shock. He's got blood on his shirt, but he's moving fine, helping Lorcan herd people away from the blast site. “Garrett and Lorcan got the west side covered,” Seamus adds, following my gaze. “He was near Bronwyn before it went off. Says he lost sight of her in the chaos.”
Christ, I thought I had time. I swore I’d keep her safe.
The envelope. The tribute. That’s what this is about.
“I’ll help search,” I start, but Seamus cuts me off.
“No. Get the Kavanagh girl somewhere safe and then come back. We don’t need civilians in the middle of this.”
He stalks away before I can argue. I turn back to Erin. She’s watching me now. Some of the daze has cleared from her eyes, replaced by something sharper, more aware. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then away, quickly, like she didn’t mean to look.
“Come on.” I offer my hand.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she says, Little Miss Perfect turning her nose up at me.
Why the fuck am I offering my hand? My mam raised me to be a gentleman, but she’s no friend of mine.
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Take it. You need to get the fuck out of here.”
She stares at my outstretched palm like it might burn her. Her throat works as she swallows. The space between us feels charged and wrong, like we’re both waiting for something to detonate again. Then, slowly, too slowly, she slides her hand into mine.
Christ.
Her palm is small and cold against mine. Delicate bones I could crush without trying. Soft skin I want to bruise. Her fingers curl around my hand, the grip tightening. She’s shaking. So am I.
Electricity shoots up my arm and settles low in my belly, hot and wrong.
I could pull her close, fist my hand in that blonde hair. I feel it in my chest… in my fucking teeth. The way her pulse jumps against my thumb where it rests on her wrist. This girl who hated me, who ratted me out at every turn. Who looked at me like I was dirt. This girl whose hand fits in mine like it was made for it, but…
