I sit back slowly as Oisín’s hand falls from my chest back to his mug. He looks exhausted by the sentence, like it cost more strength than drinking or waking or breathing through the pain. “I’m grateful,” he says. “You came for me. I know what that means.” His eyes glaze over with tears as he meets my gaze. “But you have to prove to me you’re different from your father.”
My first instinct is to argue around the words. But I’m smart enough to know that rescue isn’t repair. Coming for Oisín with guns and fury proved I’d kill for him. It didn’t prove I’d change for him. He needs the second thing, and the second thing is slower, uglier, and far less satisfying than putting bullets in men who deserve them.
I sit back in the chair beside his bed and nod once, Oisín watching me like he expected resistance and doesn’t know what to do with the absence of it. “Okay?” he whispers.
“Okay,” I say.
Tally arrives within the hour and takes one look at both of us before deciding the room belongs to her. She has a tray in her hands, a bag over one shoulder, and the expression of a woman about to commit acts of care with military force.
“You,” she says, pointing at me. “Out.”
“No.”
“Saint.”
“He just woke up.”
“And he needs clean sheets, warm water, coffee that wasn’t brewed by a man taking revenge on coffee beans, and five minutes without you staring holes through every inch of him.” She sets the tray on the dresser and softens only when she looks at Oisín. “Sweetheart, you want me to help you get cleaned up?”
Oisín’s good eye shifts to me, then back to her. “Please.”
Tally doesn’t gloat, which is kind of her. She only steps aside as I bend over Oisín, stopping far enough away that he can decide whether to meet me. After a moment, he tilts his face slightly. I press my mouth to his temple, where there’s no bruise.
“I’ll be outside.”
His fingers move against the blanket, gently pressing against my arm. “Okay.”
I leave before I make it harder on him and push into the main area, looking for something to occupy my time.
Demo hovers near the end of the hall with a cup of coffee he probably brought as an excuse to stand there. His eyes flick toward the door every few seconds, his mouth opening once before he decides against whatever useless thing he was about to ask. He finally settles on, “How is he?”
“Alive.”
Demo swallows hard and nods like he’s trying to make that enough. “Good. That’s good.”
He stays there another ten seconds, vibrating with helplessness, before Bricks appears behind him and puts one heavy hand on his shoulder. “Kid, I need you to go check the south lot.”
Demo blinks. “Why?”
“Because I asked real nice.”
“There’s nothing in the south lot.”
“Then it’ll be a quick check.”
Demo looks from Bricks to me to Oisín’s door, then seems to understand enough to stop arguing. “Right. Yeah. South lot.”
Bricks watches him go, then leans against the opposite wall, his eyes dipping to my wound. “You’re still bleeding. Planning to do anything about that?”
“No.”
“Stupid.”
“Probably. But until I know that Oisín is okay, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters.”
Oisín
Afewdayspassbefore I start moving through the clubhouse like a person instead of evidence. At first, that’s what it feels like: evidence of Canon’s failure, Saint’s rage, and the Rogue alliance collapsing into blood and consequences. Men look at me, then look away too quickly, as if the bruises on my face might accuse them of something if they stare long enough.
