Page 65 of Ruthless Claim

He’s carrying two large bags and a tray of coffees, and he scans the room before he finds me.

He nods in acknowledgment.

I’m here.

He sets everything on the table and starts distributing.

Coffee to my mother, who accepts it with graciousness.

Coffee to Teresa, who came out of Emma’s room an hour ago and has been sitting in the corner since.

She takes it with both hands with a quiet thank you.

She looks at him with an expression I can’t read.

Coffee to me, which he delivers to my chair personally, and his fingers brush mine when I take it.

My heart pounds only because I’m weak for caffeine.

Then he crosses the waiting room with one of the bags and he holds it out to my brother.

Leo looks at the bag then looks at Cillian.

Something is happening in that exchange that I am not sure I fully understand.

These two men, who have been at opposite ends of everything for six years, are standing here in a hospital waiting room at hour twelve of my best friend’s labor.

“It’s a sandwich,” Cillian tells him. “Eat it.”

Leo shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You look like you’re going to fall down,” Cillian says flatly. “If you go back in that room and pass out because you didn’t eat, she’s going to have to worry about you on top of everything else.” He presses the bag firmly into Leo’s chest. “Eat the sandwich, Leo.”

A silence.

My brother—who has never in his adult life taken orders from anyone he didn’t choose to take orders from—looks at Cillian for a long moment then takes the sandwich.

Leo clearly was hungry because he ate the sandwich in about four bites.

My mother winces as he eats it and I fight the laugh.

My mother probably thinks her son is a barbarian with how fast he ate it.

But my attention is solely on Cillian, who is unreadable, but I also think slightly pleased that he got my brother to do something.

For not the first time, I think about the boy he must have been in Connor Brennan’s house, learning to read rooms and give people exactly what they need without asking. I feel something warm move through my chest that has nothing to do with the coffee.

He comes and sits beside me, which startles me.

The waiting room has enough chairs that he could sit anywhere. But he sits beside me.

“Thank you,” I say, quietly. “For coming.”

He looks at me with those steady blue eyes. “How’s she doing?”

“Surviving,” I admit, fingers tightening around the cup. “Twelve hours is a long time.”

“It is.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Em’s—she’s tough.”