I read it twice.
The odds just got worse.
I type back:How many more can he pull?
Three dots. Then:
Working on it. Meet me downstairs in ten.
I look at Aoife. Asleep. Peaceful. The first real peace I've seen on her face in days.
I ease out from under her carefully. Pull on my clothes in the dark. She doesn't stir.
I open the door and step into the corridor, and my phone buzzes one more time.
Matty again.
There's something else. Not on the phone. Come down now.
I pull the door shut behind me and head for the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Aoife
THE LAMB IS overcooked.
Nobody mentions it. Raven carved it herself, standing at the head of Aidan's kitchen island with a serrated knife and a concentration that bordered on violent, sawing through the meat like she had something personal against it. The slices are thick and uneven and slightly gray in the middle, where they should be pink, and she arranged them on a white platter with sprigs of rosemary that she burned under the grill.
It's the best meal I've had in weeks.
Aidan opens a second bottle of wine. Red. Something expensive that he pulled from a rack in the cellar and didn't bother naming. He pours for Raven first, then reaches for my glass.
"I'm fine." I cover it with my hand. "Water for me."
Aidan pauses. His gaze flicks to William, then back to me, and I can see him working it out. Or not working it out. He moves on to his own glass and pours generously.
William doesn't say anything. But under the table, his hand finds my thigh and squeezes once. Brief. Warm.
I watch Aidan lift the bottle a second time to top off Raven's glass. The wine catches the light, deep red, almost black. William's eyes track the bottle as it moves. I see the way his throat works. The way he looks at the glass and then away, deliberately, like it costs him something to redirect his attention. Aidan doesn't notice. He's already setting the bottle down, already moving on to his food.
I wonder how close they really are. These brothers who would die for each other, who would kill for each other without hesitation. And yet Aidan pours wine at the table without a thought for what it does to William to sit beside it.
My stomach tightens. Because I know something about brothers. About the gap between loving someone and understanding them. About how you can share blood and still miss the most important things.
Reilan.
The thought hits before I can stop it. My stomach clenches harder, and I grip my fork and focus on the lamb. Cut a piece. Chew. Swallow. The meat is dry and flavorless, and I make myself eat it because the alternative is sitting here with Reilan's name bouncing around inside my skull.
"You could have let the staff handle this," Aidan says to Raven, lifting a blackened carrot on his fork. "Rose would have had this done in half the time."
"I wanted to do it myself." Raven doesn't look up from her plate.
"You burned the carrots."
"Then don't eat them."
"I'm eating them. I'm just making an observation."
