The burn gave me a focal point to distract me from an ache worse than any I’d ever known.
I set down the glass and walked out of the library, prepared to destroy my own heart.
The corridor stretched before me, dark and cold. My bare feet made no sound on the stone. The castle felt different—not a refuge but a trap. I’d let two people inside my walls, and someone was watching the whole time.
The only thingleft was to fail them one more time, in a way they’d never forgive.
I stopped outside the door. Put my hand on the wood and couldn’t make myself turn the handle. Three breaths. Four. My fingers were numb when I finally pushed it open.
They were sitting on the bed. Ophelia was wearing Oliver’s white linen shirt. His bare shoulders were visibly tense with worry as he put on his trousers. They’d been talking—I could see it in the way they turned to me with matching expressions, the concern that creased both their brows.
“Kiernan?” Ophelia’s voice was soft. “What’s wrong? You’ve been gone almost half an hour.”
I couldn’t look at her. If I did, I’d break.
“You’re leaving. Tonight.”
The words came out flat and dead, the voice of a man already gone.
Oliver stood. “What are you talking about?”
“Pack your things. A helicopter is waiting.”
“A helicopter?” Ophelia stood, and the shirt fell to her thighs. “I don’t understand. What’s happened?”
I turned toward the door.
“Kiernan.” Oliver’s hand caught my arm. His grip was strong, and his fingers, the ones that had clutched the sheets an hour ago, that had dug into my arms as I fucked him, were warm. “Talk to us. What the hell is going on?”
I looked at his hand, then up at his face. The confusion there, the fear beginning to dawn, the edge of anger that would soon consume everything else, nearly broke me. I came so close to telling them everything. The words were right there. Instead, I jerked away.
“Pack.”
I walked out before either of them could argue.
Behind me, I heard Ophelia’s voice break when she said my name, and Oliver’s sharp and vicious curse. I heard the bed creak as they scrambled to make sense of what was happening.
I didn’t stop walking until I reached my library.
I poured myself another whiskey and stood at the window, staring out at the dark grounds. The moon had set, leaving the gardens shrouded in shadows. Backlit, whoever was watching could see me. Let them. Give them a front-row view of me doing as they demanded.
From deep in the castle, I heard muffled voices and drawers opening and closing. When a door slammed shut, I flinched like I’d been struck.
The helicopter’sapproach announced itself as a distant thrum from the north. The sound grew louder, filling the night, drowning out the wind, the silence, and the sounds from the guest wing. Callen was coming in fast, the way he always did when something was wrong.
I drained my whiskey and went to meet him.
He walked into the main hall, still pulling on his jacket, his hair disheveled, his eyes sharp with questions. This man had stood beside me at my parents’ funeral, and I’d been with him when he discovered his family’s estate had been used to transport weapons of mass destruction, all orchestrated by a once-beloved caretaker. We’d bled together, killed together, and kept each other’s secrets.
In all that time, he’d only seen me like this—broken—once before.
“They’re in the guest wing,” I said, cutting him off. “Get them out.”
“Kiernan.” He stopped in front of me, close enough for me to see the concern etched into his features. “What’s happening? What am I walking them into?”
“Nothing. They’ll be safe in Glasgow. They need to be away from here.”
“And you?”
