"Not yet." Conal sat down on a chair opposite me. "You can talk to me, Verity," he murmured. "It's OK not to be OK."
I squirmed uncomfortably, not enjoying the unexpected counseling session. It seemed like I wasn't as good as I thought at hiding my poor mental health. Or maybe Conal could read me better than anyone else.
"It's fine, I'm alright." I forced a bright smile. I'd be even better if he let me go to my room to decompress. This evening had been too much. Some space from all the intense testosterone would do me good.
Conal frowned, but didn't dig any deeper.
"In that case, it's late, so yeah, go get some sleep."
I jumped up, eager to escape before he grilled me any further.
"Verity?" His voice stopped me in my tracks.
"Yeah?"
"Stay in your room for now, no venturing outside for the time being." The moment his words registered, the walls closed in on me. After spending most of my childhood confined to the attic of my father's house, I craved the freedom that came from going outside whenever I felt like it.
Panic hit me hard, and my breathing sped up. I tried to move, but my feet refused to cooperate. Knowing my room was the safest place did nothing to ease the tight band across my chest. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't fill my lungs at all.
Then a large hand settled against my lower back and an arm wrapped around me.
"Breathe, sweetheart. In and out." Conal's calm voice cut through my panic like sunlight through storm clouds. "It's only until tomorrow. Only until we've checked all the perimeters for weaknesses."
"I'm fine," I forced out, knowing full well it was a lie.
"You're not." Conal rubbed small circles on my lower back. "And I'm sorry for asking you to stay in your room. I know how much you hate being locked up."
That surprised me. It had been years since I arrived here as a traumatized child. I assumed everyone had forgotten my dysfunctional backstory. God knows, I preferred not to think about it.
I forced myself to move away. One step at a time. My bedroom was a safe space. There were guards posted everywhere. Saoirse's and Aoife's suites were two doors away. If I screamed, a guard would come running.
There was even a walk-out balcony if I needed fresh air. Conal had said nothing about staying off the balcony. If claustrophobia threatened to send me spiraling into a panic attack, all I needed to do was step outside, inhale a lungful of fresh, salty air, and I’d be fine.
"Honestly, I'm totally good," I reiterated, as much for myself as Conal. "You can go now. Go clean up some bloody corpses. I bet the pigs are hungry." I'd met the pigs. They loved snacks. And head scratches.
"The pigs will feast today," Conal agreed with a huff of dark laughter. He took my elbow and steered me toward the stairs. "Ronan made sure of that."
The unwanted visual of Ronan's pigs chowing down on corpses made my stomach churn, but surprisingly, it helped ease my anxiety.
When we reached my bedroom door, a taciturn man-mountain called Brandon stood outside, one hand resting on the butt of his gun.
"Bran's here to watch over you. If you need anything, ask him to call me. OK?" Conal's sea-gray eyes bored into mine, concern etched all over his face. I noticed the dark stubble dusting his jaw. Not that he looked like a mess. Far from it. Whereas I probably resembled day-old roadkill, he’d pass as the cover model in a dark romance novel.
"If I need anything, I'll ask Bran." Bran stared stoically at the wall.
"Good girl." My pussy fluttered at the phrasegood girl, and I fought hard not to blush a vibrant shade of puce. Not that it mattered. He knew damn I had a crush the size of Mount Everest.
I spun on my heels and entered my room to escape the object of my unrequited lust. Pining after a man -men- who saw me as nothing but a younger sister would only ever end in tears.
My tears.
14
Verity
The Kelly family's ability to snuff out any negative press never ceased to amaze me. Absolutely nothing about the attack on the estate had appeared in the press and only a few vague mentions popped up online.
The news blackout probably had something to do with the highly paid PR woman who appeared the following day. I noted her pristine makeup, smooth chignon, and Dior pantsuit, and decided I hated her.
