"And you," he says to Alessandro. "You look... different."
Alessandro nods. "It was a long night."
Rory looks between us. He sees something. The shift in gravity. The fact that we aren't standing like enemies anymore.
"Okay," Rory says. "Coffee. First aid. Then you tell me everything."
"Everything," I agree.
I walk over to a battered sofa and sit down carefully. Alessandro sits on the arm of the couch, his shoulder brushing mine.
We are safe. For now.
But the war is still waiting outside.
And Seamus Maguire is still out there, selling my family to the wolves.
I look at Alessandro. I look at Rory.
My family.
Not the clan. Not the bloodline. This. The two men in this room.
I will burn the city down to keep them safe.
Chapter Seventeen
ALESSANDRO
Rory’s studiois a controlled chaos that mirrors its owner.
Canvases are stacked against the exposed brick walls, half-finished landscapes and portraits staring out from the shadows. Jars of pigment line industrial shelves, catching the afternoon light. The air is thick with the chemical bite of turpentine and linseed oil—a sharp, pungent smell that coats the back of my throat.
The drafting table dominates the center of the space. It’s a massive slab of scarred wood, currently covered in sketches I recognize as preliminary studies for forgeries Rory will never admit to creating.
Rory gave us the studio and left without being asked. He looked at his brother—at the blood dried brown on his jacket, at the careful way Killian lowered himself into the paint-spattered armchair—and then he looked at me standing beside him, my hand hovering near the small of Killian's back.
He read the room in three seconds flat.
"I'll be at Brennan's," he said, grabbing his jacket. "Lock up behind me."
The door closed. The deadbolt turned with a heavyclunk. And the silence in the studio thickened into something that has mass and weight.
"Let me check the stitches," I say.
Killian is slumped in the armchair. His jacket is off, discarded on the floor. The t-shirt underneath is stiff with dried blood—oxidized now, the color of rust. He looks like a man who has been through a war, which is accurate. He looks exhausted, his eyes heavy-lidded, his skin pale beneath the grime.
"I'm fine," he grunts.
"You lost enough blood to lose consciousness. The wound needs to be checked for infection."
"I said I'm fine."
"Killian." I crouch in front of him. I pull the first aid supplies from the kit Rory produced—gauze, antiseptic, fresh tape. "This isn't a negotiation."
My fingers find the hem of his shirt. I lift it carefully. The dressing is intact, the gauze dark with old blood but not fresh. The sutures are holding. The skin around the wound is pink, not red. No heat. No swelling.
I exhale, a breath I didn't know I was holding.
