“Look at me.” He held my chin steady. “Follow my finger. Don’t move your head.”
I tracked his finger left, right, up, down. The motion made the pain worse, but I didn’t complain.
“Pupils equal and reactive,” he muttered. “Nausea?”
“Some.”
“Vision changes? Ringing in your ears?”
“No. Just the headache.”
“Scale of one to ten.”
“Seven. Maybe eight.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “Ophelia, get him to the settee in the sitting room. I need to make a call.”
She helped me to my feet, her arm steady around my waist. The walk to the next room felt endless. Every step sent a fresh spike through my skull.
“Is it bad?” Ophelia whispered as she lowered me onto the settee. “Like before?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
Through the partially open door, I heard Kiernan’s voice—low, clipped, urgent.
“I need you to walk me through concussion warning signs.” A pause. “Yes, it’s Oliver.” Another pause, longer this time. “No, I don’t want to discuss why he’s still at Greymarch.”
Whoever was on the other end spoke at length. Kiernan listened, occasionally interjecting with clinical questions—my symptoms, the timeline, when I’d last slept properly.
“And if the pain doesn’t subside in an hour?” A long silence. “Understood. I’ll drive him to Glasgow myself if it comes to that.”
When he returned, he carried a glass of water and two pills. His face was composed, but his eyes betrayed him—a tightness that hadn’t been there before.
“Take these. Rest. If the pain worsens or you develop new symptoms, we leave for the hospital. Now.”
“Tonight—”
“Is off the table unless you’re fully recovered.” His tone brooked no argument. “Your health comes first. Always.”
I swallowed the pills. Kiernan sat in the chair across from me, watching. Not commanding, not seducing—just watching. Making sure I was all right.
An hour passed. The pain receded—slowly at first, then more steadily. By the time the clock struck six, it had faded to a dull throb.
“Overexertion,” Kiernan said when I reported the improvement. “Your body is still recovering. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
I thought about the nights I hadn’t slept, the restless hours pacing the corridors, the physical activities that had left me breathless. He wasn’t wrong.
“Tonight,” I said. “I still want to go.”
He studied me. “If there’s any return of symptoms?—”
“I’ll tell you immediately. Red means stop, remember?”
His face shifted—surprise, maybe, or approval. “Yes. It does.”
The tunnelsbeneath Greymarch stretched farther than I’d realized. We walked for nearly twenty minutes. Dim sconces lined the stone corridor, casting long shadows on the walls. Kiernan led us, his footsteps steady and unhurried. None of us spoke.
“You should know,” Kiernan said without breaking stride. “Callen Cavendish is one of the founding partners. So is Angus Drummond.”
