My hands ball into fists. What the hell has she been through that sleeping on a closet floor feels safer than a comfortable bed? The bruises I can see are bad enough—what about the ones I can’t?
I’m going to kill that bastard.
Not today. Not this week. But Seamus Murphy is a dead man.
I crouch in the doorway, careful not to enter her space. “Nora.”
She doesn’t stir.
“Nora.” Louder this time.
Her eyes fly open and she scrambles backward, hitting the wall. The terror on her face—pure, animal fear—guts me.
“It’s me,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re safe. It’s morning.”
She blinks rapidly, orienting herself. Recognition dawns, and the panic fades to wariness.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “I didn’t mean to—the closet was?—”
“Don’t apologize.” I stand, offering her my hand. “Come on. I made breakfast.”
She stares at my hand like it might bite her before taking it. Her fingers are freezing.
I pull her to her feet and lead her to the kitchen. She moves like she’s expecting a backhand at any second. For not the first time, I take note of how she holds herself with hunched shoulders, making herself smaller.
The eggs are lukewarm now, but I plate them anyway and set them in front of her at the counter. “Eat.”
She looks at the food, then at me. “I’m not really hungry.”
It’s a lie. I can read it in her face.
“Eat anyway.”
She picks up the fork with an uncertain hand and takes a bite. Then another. Then she’s shoveling the food in her mouth like someone who’s experienced food scarcity.
I watch her as I pour myself a cup of coffee. The bruise on her cheek is darker in the morning light. There’s another fading one on her jaw I didn’t notice yesterday. Her brow isknitted in a permanent expression of worry, her face is too thin—too angular and bony from lack of nutrition—and there are dark circles under her eyes.
But underneath all that?—
She’s pretty. Delicate features, long lashes, a mouth that would be soft if it wasn’t pressed into a tight line.
I shut that thought down hard. She’s nineteen. Traumatized. Not going there.
“Did you sleep all right?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Yes, sir.”
The “sir” makes my jaw clench. “Cillian is fine.”
She finishes eating and stands immediately, picking up her plate.
“Leave it.”
“I should clean up?—”
“I said leave it.” It comes out too harsh and I want to kick myself when she flinches.
I force myself to breathe and try again. “I’ll handle it.”
