Fine. Take your time, but we will discuss this when you get back.
Arsehole.
I type quickly, keeping it short. Bianca wouldn't grovel to him.
You fucking son of a?—
I sigh, delete the damn message, then try again.
Marcus. I said I need space. I just graduated college. I'm not ready to move in with you yet. Respect that, please. I'll be in touch when I'm ready.
I click send. It was ten thousand times nicer than the fuckin' arsehole deserves.
I stare at the phone for a moment, fighting the urge to block his goddamn name from her phone. Fighting the urge to scroll through her photos, to look at her notes, to view all the private bits of her life I haven't seen yet. It'd be so easy, and she'd never know… but I would.
But this is a line, however blurred it's become, that I won't cross. Not yet, anyway.
I set her phone back down and power it off. Then I grab mine from the charging cable by the window.
Shite.
Three missed calls from Seamus. I scroll through the messages.
Seamus
Where the fuck are you? Need you at the meeting tomorrow at ten sharp. Don't forget this time, yeah?
Tomorrow? Fuck. I'd completely forgotten about the goddamn meeting tomorrow. Our cousins Colm and Daire have gone overseas doing what Seamus says is “research.” Seamus’s brother Torin is still in prison, and I know Seamus is trying to maintain control.
I type back quickly.
I'll be there.
His response comes almost immediately. He's probably at the pub with the lads.
Seamus
You better. Everyone's asking questions about where you've been.
I type back.
Tell them to mind their own fucking business.
Seamus’s response is immediate.
Seamus
Just be there tomorrow. Whatever you're doing, don't bring it back to the family. Clear?
Clear.
I pocket the phone and scrub my hand over my face. Tomorrow. That means I'll have to leave her here alone for a few hours. The thought makes my chest tight. I can't take her with me—it’s too fucking dangerous—but I don't want to leave her here unguarded…
I'll have to lock the doors and secure the windows. She'll be safe. She has to be.
I grab a blanket and pillows from the sofa and head back down the hallway. I pause outside her door and listen. Nothing. Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she's lying there, trying to plot her escape.
I open the door as quietly as I can. The lamp is still on, and she’s in the bed, dressed in the pajamas I brought her—thin white cotton that clings to her curves, the neckline sliding off one shoulder. Her hair is plaited over one bare shoulder, dark against her pale skin. Her hands are tucked under her face.
