Page 12 of Wicked Ruin

It’s my fault, in the way that all administrative necessities eventually feel like my fault. I’m the one who made the case to Seamus—the Kavanaghs betrayed us. Exile is the mercy option. Here is why you should take the mercy option—and after forty minutes of convincing and one very careful conversation about optics, Seamus agreed. The right call. No question.

But the right call put Bridget Kavanagh in a room full of McCarthys, with the only family left just having taken the McCarthy family name.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be invested in seeing Bridget’s eyes spark in the way that makes me feel like I handed her the moon. It shouldn’t make me want to do it again.

I cross the room before I’ve made a conscious decision to do it. Someone should. The lass is all alone. Safe for now, but barely.

“Coke again?”

She looks up fast, like she’s been caught at something, then visibly decides she hasn’t. That’s new. Is she more self-conscious now that her parents have been called out? Does she fear repercussions? Does she⁠—

I notice too many things about her. That’s the problem.

“Well.” She holds up the glass. “This one has a bit of rum in it.”

I let myself grin. “Course it does, Trouble.”

And why does that adorable little smirk make me imagine kissing her all over again? I’ve made one mistake after another with her.

I should walk away.

I should clink her glass and wish her the best and go do something infinitely safer, like juggle kitchen knives or play dodgeball through Dublin’s busiest streets.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

She looks better than she did in the hospital. That's the problem. In the hospital, she was pale and small and easy to think of as someone to protect. Tonight, she's got color in her cheeks and something green on that makes her look—Christ.

I make myself stare at the wall just past her shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” I ask. I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Sorry, you probably get that question like a hundred times a day, and I⁠—”

“Honestly, I don’t. People have their own lives and all that. And to answer your question, so much better. The numbers are trending upward.” She says it with that little smile I’ve come to love. “Thanks to your family. I’m feeling human again, Declan. It’s… honestly, it’s amazing.”

“I love that.”

Without even thinking about it, I rest my hand briefly at the small of her back and pull her in, just a quick hug. She's warm, and she holds on a half second longer than she needs to, and I am very carefully not thinking about the fact that she fits against me like she’s made to be here.

I wish she hadn’t let go.

“Good,” I say, and I mean it more than I intend to. Her smile feels like sunshine, so maybe it was enough.

The music shifts to something slower. On the dance floor, Cavin catches my eye, that calculating look he gets, the one that means he’s already run the numbers on whatever he’s seeing. He does the two-finger point. Eyes to me, eyes to Bridget.

I roll my eyes, casually flip him off, and shake my head. She’s Erin’s sister and completely off-limits. I’m not gonna fuck anything up.

He doesn’t look convinced.

Bridget hasn’t noticed. She’s staring at her glass, working up to saying something.

“I’ve been too sick to come to the club,” she says. “I just wanted to say… I mean, I know you said it was fine and all, but I didn’t want you to think I was… I don’t know, like not grateful for the offer or something.”

“Hey,” I say. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

She blinks. “I just haven’t heard from you, and I thought…” Color rises in her cheeks as she bites her lip, as if to prevent herself from saying anything else.

“You thought what?”

She looks at me directly, which she does more often than most people. “I didn’t want you to think I lost interest. I mean, not interest. I know you’re not interested in me like that, but more like…” She closes her eyes as if she wishes the floor would swallow her whole. “This isn’t coming out the right way.”