“We could be across the Channel by morning,” he says softly. “We don’t have to go to Manhattan. We could try France or Spain… hell, we could chase the sun until we forget what clouds are.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at my hands. My knuckles are still scuffed. “You always did love a dramatic exit.”
“It’s not an exit if we keep going.” He pauses for a beat, worry in that jeweled gaze. “Talk to me, Kitty Cat.”
I could lie. I could give him another excuse. Instead, I swallow the thing that’s been a stone in my mouth since we returned to Belfast and opt for one of the truths.
“I have to see him.”
His jaw tightens, one clean line of worry. “Tiernan is dead. There’s no one left to?—”
“Not Tiernan.” I force my eyes to his. “My father.”
The word lands, and we both listen to the echo.
Matteo pushes off the dresser, slowly, like he’s checking the floor for traps. “Caitríona…”
“I need a clean break from him, from my whole family.” The words bubble out before he can talk me out of it. “No ghosts, no favors, no debts pressed into my palm the next time someone wants to pull my strings. I have to look him in the eye and say I’m done with him, with this life.” I make my voice flat so it doesn’t shake. “Otherwise, this follows me. Followsus, forever.”
He hears the plural, and I see it hit. His gaze flicks to my throat, to the spot his mouth knows, then back to my face. “There’s more though, isn’t there?” he asks gently. “You’re holding back something else.”
I look away. The rain worries the glass harder. My fingers drift like a traitor toward the blossom under my shirt and stop short. “I’m not ready.”
His breath leaves on a quiet curse that isn’t for me. He drags a hand through his hair, then nods. “Fine. Keep it until you are.” His eyes harden just a hair. “But if you’re going to your father, I’m going with you.”
“Matteo—”
“I don’t trust him.” His head whips back and forth. “And I trust Donal even less. I won’t let you walk into a room with either of them without me in it.”
Something in my chest loosens and stings at the same time. “You don’t get to decide?—”
“I’m not deciding for you.” He takes a step closer, palms open like he’s leaving the choice in my hands and means it. “I’m deciding what I can live with. And what I can’t…”
The stupid part of me that wants to keep him safe rears up. The smarter part counts the bodies behind us and admits there’s no version of this that doesn’t involve risk. I let out a breath that tastes like surrender and steel.
“Okay,” I whisper. “You can come.”
He searches my face, like he still doesn’t trust the words. Then a nod, small and wrecked with relief. “We do it on our terms. I pick the time, place, and exit routes.”
“I’m assuming Leo will come along too?”
“Leo will have a coronary.” His mouth twitches. “He’ll stay close.”
I should let the plan build between us, brick by brick, until it’s solid enough to stand on. Instead, something else rises. It’s the thing that’s been living under my sternum since he came back from the mill, since the hangar, since the rain on the Jersey porch. The thing that almost made me turn, almost made me run.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and it’s not for agreeing. It’s for all of it. The ugly parts too.
He takes another step, the space between us gone thin. “Don’t thank me yet.”
I tilt my chin. “Bossy.”
“You like me bossy,” he murmurs, and the way he’s looking at me is a crime I want to confess to.
“Sometimes,” I allow, mouth curving despite myself.
His hand lifts, slow enough to be refused, and tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my jaw, and my resolve goes soft at the edges. He’s closer now, and the lemon and cedar of him is a familiar room I don’t know how to leave.
The first kiss is careful, like he’s testing the ice he already knows will hold. I meet him there, a press, a breath, a yes. He deepens it by degrees, waiting me out, coaxing instead of conquering until something inside me sighsfinallyand opens to him.
