Page 78 of Wicked Ruin

When I leave, I can’t shake the feeling I’m walking myself to the fucking guillotine.

I meet Aunt Caitlin in the hallway. Her silvery hair’s in a messy bun, and she’s wearing her signature faded dress and sun hat, which tells me she’s been in the garden, her favorite place to be.

“Declan?” she says, her smile bright. “You're alright?”

“Aye,” I tell her. “You? Seamus told me about Uncle Keenan.”

“Aye,” she says. “He’s lived a hard life, my husband, but we have good doctors who promise us a solid prognosis. He’s not going anywhere for a long time yet.”

I nod, not sure what to say when she changes the subject.

“Your fiancée is lovely.” She says it warmly, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's worried. So are Mam and Da.

“Thank you.” I keep my own smile easy. I'm not going to complain about the choices I've made. Not now, not here.

“It'll be nice having an American in the family,” she says, and I wish she would stop. I don't want any of Aunt Caitlin's endless positivity right now. She's one of my favorite people in the world, but I can't stand it, not today.

“Check the cake!” Bronwyn's voice carries from the kitchen. “I’m up to my elbows in paint!”

“Right, love,” Aunt Caitlin says, then gives me a quick hug and heads off. I know Uncle Keenan's health declining the way it has weighs on her, but I also know Seamus will get him the help he needs. It's his job, and Seamus never fails at his job.

My phone vibrates with a text, and I look at it, hoping. I texted Bridget first thing this morning, but she hasn't responded. It's probably just as well that she hasn't. I know she's got responsibilities. I know that our friendship⁠—

Friendship.

Christ, can I even call it that anymore?

Valentina

Your tux fitting is at noon in Dublin. Please wear actual shoes

Soon enough, this woman and I are going to have a conversation about who is the head of this house. I may not be as hardheaded as my brothers and cousins, but fuck it, I won't have a wife who bosses me around either.

Of course. Not prone to going into Dublin barefoot.

Valentina

You know what I mean.

I know exactly what she means—she wants me in those stiff-as-cardboard dress shoes instead of the trainers I wear every day. She can fuck off.

If I weren’t recovering, I’d meet Cavin at the gym. Lift something heavy, get some of the aggression out. He still hasn't told me what the feck is wrong with Bridget. Not a flare-up, she'd said. Then what the hell is it?

Maybe I need to ask her directly. Right. I’ll ask her myself. If she won’t answer my texts, I’ll find out where she is.

So I make a call to her guard.

“Sir?”

“Are you with Bridget?”

“Always, sir.”

Jealous of the bastard. “Where are you?”

“She's in Dr. Rosenberg's office, sir.”

Right. I'd actually been contemplating paying the doctor a visit myself—nothing threatening, necessarily. Of course, I know exactly where his office is. I've taken her to so many appointments I could navigate there in my sleep—where to park, which alleyway, which exit she'll come out of.