I won’t wear white.
Not for them. Not for this.
Not unless it’s soaked in their blood.
The plane dips, and my stomach flips with it. The seatbelt burns against my hip.
I count the seconds between the wheels dropping and the final announcement from the flight attendant.
I feel the descent now, pressure building behind my ears. The air changes. The silence thickens like a warning.
The moment the wheels hit the tarmac, I inhale a slow, steady breath. I’ve got one shot. Maybe two if they hesitate. But hesitation isn’t something the O’Briens are known for.
The lights flicker. The plane jerks as it slows.
My fingers twitch. Muscles coil.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dublin?—”
I’m up.
Unbuckled, lunging for the aisle.
I hit the first guard in the face with my elbow, hard enough to feel something crunch.
A hand grabs my arm. I twist. Slam my boot down on his foot. Spin and throw myself down the aisle, dodging a tray cart.
"AOIFE!" someone roars behind me.
I don’t stop.
Not for them. Not for anyone.
I make it to the door.
I don’t care if we’re still moving.
Hands on the lever.
Another hand grabs my hair from behind.
I scream, raw and furious, and twist, slamming my head back. Something cracks. He stumbles. I feel his weight fall away, and for a second, I’m free.
Then…
Pain explodes across my side.
I hit the floor, shoulder-first. My breath whooshes out in a sob.
More hands now.
Too many.
I claw. Kick. Bite.
A boot lands in my ribs. I cough. Spit blood.
“Enough!” a voice bellows. Familiar. Cold. Uncle Liam.
