THE COCAINE IS still singing through my veins when I hit the gym.
Not the fitness center the house has for show, but the real gym. The one in the basement where I train, where pain is the only truth that makes sense. The heavy bag hangs from a chain in the center of the room, scarred leather bearing testament to decades of violence. I strip off my shirt and toss it aside. The basement air is cool against my skin, but I'm already sweating. The drugs make everything sharper, hotter. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
I wrap my hands. The ritual is familiar and comforting. I loop the fabric around my knuckles, between my fingers, aroundmy wrists, and pull it tight. The pressure grounds me and makes me feel real in a way nothing else does anymore.
I face the bag and let loose.
The first punch explodes through my shoulder and connects with leather. The impact reverberates up my arm in a way that feels good. I throw another punch, and another. Left hook. Right cross. Jab, jab, uppercut. The combinations flow through muscle memory, through training that was beaten into me before I could tie my own shoes.
Sweat pours down my face, my chest, my back. The cocaine makes me feel invincible, unstoppable, like I could punch through concrete if I wanted to. Like nothing can hurt me. But that's the lie drugs tell, that you're strong when you're actually falling apart. I don't care. Not right now.
I pound the bag harder and faster. Each hit releases something coiled tight in my chest. Rage at Alex for killing Father. Rage at Father for dying. Rage at whoever shot Dillon right in front of his daughter. Rage at myself for being high when I should be figuring out who the fuck is behind this.
The bag swings violently on its chain. I follow it and keep up the assault. My muscles burn, and my lungs heave. But I don't stop because I can't stop. If I stop, I have to think. Have to feel. Have to face the reality that I'm drowning, and there's no one coming to save me.
The door at the top of the stairs opens.
I don't pause or acknowledge it. I just keep hitting the bag with everything I have.
Footsteps descend, light and careful. Not security. Not one of my brothers. A woman.
I throw one more combination, then step back from the bag and let it swing while I catch my breath. Then I turn around.
She's standing at the bottom of the stairs, still wearing that beige jacket and cream sweater from earlier, but something'sdifferent. Her hair is pulled back now. Her posture is straight and controlled. But her eyes... Her eyes are fixed on my chest.
I'm shirtless and drenched in sweat, hands wrapped, muscles pumped from the workout. And she's staring at me, not subtle about it either. Her gaze tracks across my shoulders, down my abs, lower, then snaps back up to my face. Her cheeks flush pink, and something hot and sharp twists in my gut.
I walk toward her slowly and deliberately, watching the way her throat works when she swallows. The way her hands tighten on her purse. The way she lifts her chin even as her pupils dilate. She's afraid of me. Good. She should be. But she's also something else, something that makes my blood run hotter than the cocaine ever could; she’s liking what she sees.
"Enjoying the view?" My voice comes out rough and taunting.
Her eyes narrow. "You're high."
The accusation lands like a slap. I stop a few feet away from her, close enough to see the way her pulse jumps in her throat. Close enough to smell her perfume underneath the hospital antiseptic.
"So what if I am?" I tilt my head and shrug. "You got something to say about it?"
"Yes." She doesn't back down or even flinch. "You're supposed to be leading this family. How can you do that when you're—"
"When I'm what?" I take another step closer. "Say it, Aoife. When I'm what?"
Her jaw tightens. "When you're too high to think straight."
"You think being sober makes thinking straight easier? You think clarity helps when your father's been murdered by your own brother? When your future wife's father gets shot in your fucking house?”
I'm in her space now, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her blue eyes. Close enough to watch her breath hitch.
"I think better high," I tell her quietly. "I function better high. I'm better at this job high than I ever was sober. So yeah, princess. I'm fucking high. And I'll stay high as long as it keeps me from putting a gun in my mouth." My heart beats a rhythm that makes me want to reach up and grab it. Instead, I tighten my clenched fists at my side.
Silence crashes between us.
She doesn't look away. She just holds my gaze for a moment before her eyes flicker down to my wrapped knuckles. She reaches out, and I freeze.
Her hand hovers near mine, hesitant. Then she touches my wrist, just barely. Her fingers are cool against my overheated skin. She looks at the wrappings, and something flickers across her face.
"You're bleeding through the wraps," she says quietly.
I glance down. She's right. Red is seeping through the white fabric on my right hand. Split knuckles again.
