Page 10 of Wicked Ruin

I want to ask if he’s volunteering, but I hold myself back. “You’re a secret romantic, Declan McCarthy.”

He smiles and shrugs, a little bashful. “So let's say, hypothetically, that someday, when you're better, you walk back into The Craic.” He tilts his head. “What do you think happens?”

I sip the soup to cover an involuntary choking noise.

“Hypothetically,” I say carefully, when I can speak again. He’s just making conversation, that’s all.

“Purely.”

“I imagine I'd have a very nice evening.”

“Mm.” He considers this with the gravity of a man reviewing a court case. “And what if—hypothetically—I happened to be there.”

“Also hypothetically.”

“Obviously.”

“Then I imagine,” I say, very slowly, “I'd say hello.”

He gives me that particular look—level, dark, entirely unbothered—that I am quickly learning means he finds me amusing and intends to do nothing about it. “Just hello.”

“It's a very good hello.”

He's quiet for a moment, still watching me. Then the corner of his mouth pulls just slightly. “You'd better get better, then. So we can test that theory.”

I tell myself he’s just distracting me, that he doesn’t really care, that I’m just a girl who’s amusing him for a moment. But hell, I’m enjoying this moment.

I push the soup aside, no longer hungry, but not from nausea this time. “I suppose I'd better.”

I don’t know what else to say then because Declan McCarthy is sitting in a hospital chair like he owns it, even as it bows under his weight, because he probably sits that way in every room he's ever been in. I have exactly zero experience with men who look like that, with men who talk like that, with men who bring four quarts of soup because they want to be sure you have something you like.

The most sensible thing to do is thank him politely and tell him I'll be fine. That I'll behave. That I'm not going to do anything stupid at the club, much less with a man like him.

God above, am I tired of doing the sensible thing.

“Get better, Bridget.” His voice has dropped, the humor underneath it still there but lower, like something banked. “I insist on it.”

“Is that right…” I say, which is not quite a question.

“Aye.” His eyes hold mine a beat longer than necessary before he looks away, easy and unhurried, like he didn't just say something with two meanings. “Finish your soup.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not surprise exactly, but it kind of looks like a door closing in a room where he left it ajar. He leans closer and tugs at the sheet to smooth it out. “And you'll get better, lass. That's an order.”

Why does it feel so warm in here?

“Is that right?” I whisper, trying to be brave, but my voice is all husky, and I'm trembling.

“Aye.”

I fold my hands in my lap with as much dignity as a girl in a hospital bed, with a bruised arm and an IV, can manage.

“Listen.” I draw in a deep breath. I’m shaking, but I have to stand my ground. “I want you to know I’m not a—” I pause, searching for the word. “I'm not a project. I don't want to be handled. If I tell you I'm fine, you have to believe me. Or at least pretend to.”

“Deal,” he says, though his eyes are wide and he looks a little… frightened? Yes. Definitely scared.

I've scared the most dangerous man I've ever personally met. Why do I suddenly feel six feet tall?

“And if I tell you I'm not fine—” I stop again, trying to find the right words. “Don't make it a whole thing. Don't treat me like I'm… breakable.”