He studies me for a long moment, expression unreadable. “You sleeping in the stockroom?”
My heart stutters. “I?—”
“The cot, Jhene. I saw it this morning.”
I don’t know what to say, so I bow my head and remain silent.
Tom sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not gonna kick you out. Not yet anyway. But you gotta shape up. Understood?”
“Understood,” I whisper.
He nods then stomps back to the bar, leaving me alone in the dim hallway with the weight of everything pressing down on my chest.
Shape up. Easy for him to say.
He doesn’t know what it’s like to sleep with one eye open, waiting for the door to burst in. He believes watching the news reports informs him of what I’ve been through.
As if he—and the rest of them—could ever grasp the true horrors that unfolded.
I’m the lucky one. At least I’m free, however temporary.
But Eva? She’s still suffering.
My baby sister is still trapped in that nightmare while I’m out here fumbling drink orders and praying I don’t get fired from a job that pays less than minimum wage.
I have to get her out; Iwillget her out.
But it’s going to take time—and money.
I have to be patient. Strategic.
Even if patience feels like swallowing glass when every second she’s with them is a second too long.
I calm myself with another deep breath and smooth down my apron. Thoughts of Eva get pushed into the small, locked box in my chest where I keep the pain contained.
All the things that hurt too much to hold in the present moment are there.
I’ll mourn our fates later. In the dark, at night, when I’m unable to sleep.
Right now, I have tables to wait and tips to earn.
I nudge past the doors and head back into the bar just in time to seehimwalk in.
I clock Killian Rourke the second he enters the Banshee. He’s a wall of a man shouldering his way into the pub as if he owns the place. He might as well.
From what I hear, he’s one of Tom’s biggest regulars, and anything he wants, he gets.
He’s impossible to miss. Six three, maybe six four, with a solid enough build to make doorframes seem small. His rumpled dark hair is damp with sweat, and he has fresh bruises on his face—andfreshly dried blood on his knuckles.
He doesn’t seem to give a damn about either.
But that’s no surprise. He makes people bleed for a living. Both insideandoutside the ring.
I’ve heard the rumors. Everyone has.
Killian’s more than a pro boxer beating in the faces of other fighters. He’s what’s known as the Callahan clan’s boneman. Their enforcer who metes our punishments and handles their enemies.
He drops into a booth in the back corner. The redheaded guy waiting for him finally looks up from his phone for the first time. As far as I can tell, he’s another Callahan soldier. Lower on the totem pole than Killian.
