Jason’s screams echo behind me—raw, animal pain swallowed slowly by the hush of the morning streets. My hand throbs where it met bone. My arm’s deadweight now, radiating sharp pain with every step. But I barely feel it. Not compared to the fire still crawling under my skin.
I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door. The sound ricochets through the car, rattling something loose inside me. I grip the wheel with my good hand, the leather cracked and sun-faded beneath my fingers.
I should feel better.
I should feel justified. Like I’ve done what needed doing, defended what’s mine.
But the truth is, the anger is still there, sizzling in my veins like battery acid. Because it’s never just about scum like Jason McGee. It’s about Lily—her dark eyes wide in the dark glow of that club, lips parted, body pressed close to men who don’t deserve to look at her, let alone touch her.
It’s about wanting her so badly it steals the air from my lungs and knowing that wanting her is the one thing I can’t allow myself.
It’s about the ache, the pull, and the way she destroys me with a single look and doesn’t even know it.
I drop my head against the steering wheel, forehead pressed into the leather until it creaks beneath the pressure. My arm throbs. My knuckles are swelling, the pain sharp and unrelenting.
But I swear to God, I’d keep breaking every bone in my hand if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.
Even if the only monster she ever needed saving from… is me.
From:[email protected]
Subject:Lead
Lily gave me a new lead today. Someone I think you’ll be interested in—ifshe makes it through the Boss’ training.
From:[email protected]
Subject:Re: Lead
Of course she did. She’s always had a good eye for things like this.
Any chance you can bring her over here? I’d like to see her.
From:[email protected]
Subject:Re: Lead
You know as well as I do that’s a no-go. Boss would lose his shit if we blew our cover now.
Chapter 7
Despite the countless hours we’ve spent poring over everything we’ve managed to dig up, the connections between Jen, Benedict, Lily, and Angus still refuse to line up. No matter how many times I circle back, something always slips through my fingers.
Side by side, the birth certificates tell part of the story. The one Jen used to enrol Lily at St. Theresa’s was fake. The real one—listing Benedict as her father—had been locked away in his house in Belfast all along. That much is undeniable. What isn’t is whether Lily knew and lied to us… or if—like Abbie, Cora, and Helen swear—she was just as blindsided as the rest of us.
I want to believe them. God help me, I do.
But then there are Jen’s emails.
One stack went to Angus and Peter, drip-feeding them everything she pulled from my Da, along with neat little updates about when the next batch of girls she’d secured would be ready. That part is ugly, but it makes a sick kind of sense. The other stack—the one I keep coming back to—went to Benedict.
Emails calling Lily anasset. Emails cataloguing her life in unsettling detail: school events, social updates, photos. And when I put them alongside the faded hospital pictures of Benedict holding a newborn Lily, something in my chest tightens. It’s hard to reconcile all of it with the girl who looked me in the eye and swore she’d never met him.
