Chapter 198
Summer's POV
I couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but shake, but I didn't pull away when his fingers—his left hand, the good one—gently covered mine where they were pressed against my temples.
"He's gone," Kieran said, his thumb sweeping across my knuckles in slow, steady strokes. "He can't hurt you. I won't let him hurt you."
"He already did," I whispered, and my voice was breaking, cracking like ice under too much weight. "He already—all those years, what he said, what he did—"
"I know." Kieran's voice was rough now, tight with barely controlled rage. "I know, baby. But he's not here now. It's just you and me. Can you feel my hand? Can you focus on that?"
I tried. Focused on the warmth of his palm, the roughness of his calluses, the steady pressure of his fingers against mine. Slowly, slowly, my breathing began to even out, the darkness receding from the edges of my vision, and I could see him clearly again—his face tight with concern, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with fury that wasn't directed at me but for me.
"That's it," Kieran murmured, his thumb still moving in those steady circles. "Just breathe. In and out. You're doing so good."
"I'm sorry," I gasped, and tears were sliding down my cheeks now, hot and shameful. "I'm sorry, I ruined everything, I—"
"You didn't ruin anything." His voice was fierce now, almost angry. "That piece of shit ruined it. Not you. Never you. You hear me?"
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw the rage in his eyes—not at me, but for me. Saw the way his jaw was clenched, his shoulders tight, like he was barely holding himself back from chasing Mason down and finishing what he'd started. Saw the way his damaged right hand was trembling slightly where it rested on the table, and I realized he'd used it to grab Mason's collar, had put pressure on the nerve damage even though it had to have hurt like hell.
"You're hurt," I said, reaching for his right hand without thinking. "Your hand—"
"It's fine." But he didn't pull away, let me carefully turn his hand over, examining the way his ring finger and pinky finger wouldn't straighten all the way, the way the scar tissue was slightly red where he'd gripped Mason's collar. "Summer, I don't care about my hand right now. I care about you."
"Why?" The word came out broken, desperate. "Why do you care? I'm just—I'm the girl everyone made fun of, I'm the one who was too fat and too stupid and too—"
"Stop." Kieran's voice was sharp now, commanding. "Stop saying that shit about yourself. You want to know why I care? Because you're brave. Because you stood up for Lily when no one else would. Because you look at me like I'm worth something even though I'm just some Southie kid with a fucked-up hand and a drunk for a father. Because when you smile—really smile, not that fake thing you do for everyone else—it's like the sun coming out."
I stared at him, tears still sliding down my cheeks, and something in my chest was cracking open, letting in light I'd kept carefully locked away for years.
"I want to go," I whispered, because I couldn't handle this, couldn't handle him looking at me like I mattered when I'd spent so long believing I didn't. "Please, Kieran, I need to leave."
"Okay." He stood up, carefully, keeping himself between me and the rest of the restaurant, and I could see people still watching us, still filming, and I wanted to disappear, wanted to sink through the floor and never come back. "Can you walk?"
I tried to stand and my legs buckled, my knees giving out like they were made of water, and Kieran caught me instantly, one arm around my waist, holding me steady against his side.
"I've got you," he said, and his voice was so gentle, so careful, like I was something precious that might break. "I've got you, Summer."
But I couldn't walk, couldn't make my legs work properly, and Kieran looked down at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'm going to carry you. If you don't want that, tell me now."
I should have protested. Should have told him I could walk, that I wasn't some helpless damsel who needed rescuing, that I was too heavy and he'd hurt his back and everyone would stare and—
But I couldn't. Couldn't do anything but nod, and then he was lifting me—one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, his damaged right hand pressed against my ribs where it had to hurt but he did it anyway—cradling me against his chest like I weighed nothing.
"Kieran, you don't have to—"
"Yes I do," he said simply, and he was walking now, carrying me through the restaurant, past the staring people and their phones, past the staff mopping up chocolate shake, out the door and into the bright afternoon. "You're shaking so hard you can barely stand. So I'm carrying you."
I wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to put me down, but the truth was I couldn't walk. Could barely breathe. Could only cling to his jacket and try not to fall apart completely as he carried me down Newbury Street, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his arms strong and sure and safe.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice muffled against his shoulder.
"Public Garden," Kieran said. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can talk."
"I don't want to talk." I did want to talk, desperately, but I was terrified of what would come out if I started—all the ugliness I'd kept locked inside for so long, all the shame and self-hatred and fear that Mason Pierce had planted in me and that had grown like weeds in the dark.
"I know." Kieran's arms tightened around me slightly. "But you need to. And I need to hear it. Because I can't protect you from something if I don't know what it is."
"You can't protect me from this," I whispered. "No one can. It's already happened. It's already inside me."
"Then we'll get it out," Kieran said fiercely. "Together."