FORTY FIVE

FORTY FIVE
DARRAGH'S POV

The words hung on my tongue for a moment too long. Ciara sat across from me, fingers drumming against her knee, eyes fixed on the hotel window where the morning sun streaked the glass. That hollow look in her gaze—like she was bracing for another blow—made the decision for me.

"Saraphina's mother," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Riona Maychild."

Ciara went perfectly still. Only her chest moved with a sharp intake of breath that escaped as a slow hiss between her teeth. Two rapid blinks, and something hardened in her expression.

"Of course." The words scraped from her throat as if each one cut on the way out. "Of course." Her knuckles whitened around the edge of the armchair. "I've had this feeling about your cousin."

I crossed the room in two strides. "Don't go there."

"Why not?" Her eyes met mine, glittering with dangerous intensity. "You think I'm wrong? You should see the way she watches you when you're not looking. The way she talks about—"

"Sara is nothing like her mother." My voice rose despite my effort to keep it level. "Nothing."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "I don't know..." She stood, bringing us toe to toe. "Maybe because she loves you. And not like a cousin should, Darragh."

My pulse stumbled. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. "What?"

Ciara's gaze flickered away. She stepped back, arms wrapping around her middle.

"But I don't get it," she muttered, pacing now. Three quick steps one way, pivot, three back. The walls of the room seemed to shrink with each turn. "My parents had nothing to do with you. Or with Sara. Not in my past life." She gestured sharply, hand slicing through the air. "Why would Sara's mother want them dead and not me?"

"Probably because she was asked to."

Ciara stopped mid-stride.

"If you hadn't jumped to conclusions about my cousin," I continued, leaning against the dresser, "I might have mentioned that Riona was working for Brigid." The wood edge dug into my palms. "Why, I don't know. But before she killed me, she said something about a curse. Something binding her from seeing her daughter. And that I had to die for it to break."

Ciara turned toward me. The lamplight caught the tiny muscle jumping in her jaw.

"Still?" Her laugh cracked like thin ice. "So it all goes back to the O'Donoghues." She pressed a hand to her forehead. "Doesn't it always?"

I nodded, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath. "Brigid pulls strings we still don't understand. But she doesn't work alone. She keeps her circle small. Riona was one of them."

Ciara's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Then she has to be stopped."

"I'm already working on it." I pushed away from the dresser. "Just like you visited their estate with a purpose, so did I."

Her head tilted, eyes narrowing. "Which was?"

"To drive a wedge between Brigid and Riona."

She took a step closer. "How?"

The space between us hummed with tension. I could smell her perfume—something with sandalwood.

"Before Riona was shunned from our pack, before she murdered her husband, she wore an enchanted watch." My thumb traced circles against my palm. "A limiter. My family put it on her after her magic spiraled out of control." The memory of Riona's screams that day still haunted our pack. "It was traumatic. A mark of distrust."

I held Ciara's gaze. "If she believes Brigid is planning the same thing—if she thinks her only ally is turning on her—she'll break. The mistrust alone could snap whatever allegiance they share."

Ciara stared at me, her silence stretching until it felt physical. "And you didn't think to tell me this?"

"You have secrets too."

One eyebrow arched. "Like what?"

I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her irises. "Like what do you mean Sara loves me?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. A beat passed before she rolled her eyes, but not before I caught something vulnerable flicker across her face. "You really don't know?"

I frowned. "She's like a sister. She's protective because we grew up together."

Ciara's expression softened into something between disbelief and pity. The sound that escaped her was almost gentle. "I didn't think you were that clueless."

Heat crept up my neck. I couldn't find words to answer.

"Don't worry," she added, voice dropping lower. Her fingers brushed my arm briefly. "I'm not jealous. But if you really think she doesn't see you as more than family..." She shook her head. "You haven't been paying attention."

My legs suddenly felt unsteady. I sank onto the edge of the bed, mind racing through a hundred moments with Sara, seeing them in a new light. Her lingering touches. The way her smile changed when I entered a room.

Ciara cleared her throat. "What now, Darragh?"

I dragged a hand through my hair, anchoring myself back in the present. "Now we wait. If I'm right, the seed of doubt's already been planted." I looked up at her. "If Riona finds the enchanted ring. She probably thinks Brigid meant it for her."

"You think Riona will believe that?" Ciara leaned against the wall opposite me, arms crossed.

I shrugged. "No idea." The bedsprings creaked beneath me. "Maybe. Brigid has backup plans for her backup plans. Even Riona would be foolish to blindly trust her."

"She has killed me once," Ciara whispered. Her eyes unfocused for a heartbeat, seeing something I couldn't. "You really think a little paranoia will undo her?"

"No," I admitted. "But paranoia makes her sloppy. And if Riona starts asking the right questions, Brigid will lose control."

Ciara pushed off from the wall and crossed to where I sat. Her shadow fell over me as she stood between my knees. "You're playing with fire."

"So are you."

The tension between us shifted, became something else entirely. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes between us. All the things we weren't saying about Sara, about our pasts, about what might happen next, pressed down on us.

"You're not alone in this, Ciara," I said, the words feeling raw in my throat. "I want to be honest with you because I need you to know that whatever happens next, we face it together."

She nodded, but her eyes were still searching mine, like she was looking for something buried deep. Her fingers twitched at her sides, almost reaching for me, then stilling.

A car horn blared in the distance, but neither of us looked away.

Three sharp knocks on the door broke the spell.

"Room service," called a woman's voice from the hallway. "Dry cleaning delivery."

I blinked, reality rushing back in. Ciara stepped away, arms crossing over the borrowed hotel robe she wore.

"Coming," I called, grateful for the moment to collect myself.

I crossed to the door and pulled it open. A middle-aged woman in a hotel uniform stood in the hallway, Ciara's clothes draped carefully over her arm. The fabric looked immaculate—no trace of the earlier rain remained.

"All dry and pressed, sir," she said with a practiced smile. "Just as requested."

"Thank you." I accepted the bundle, feeling the warmth of the freshly ironed fabric through my fingertips. I slipped her a tip from my wallet.

She nodded her thanks before I closed the door.

When I turned back, Ciara had retreated to the far side of the room, near the window again. Her profile was outlined by the bright morning sunlight beyond the glass. I crossed to her and held out her clothes.

"You should get dressed," I said quietly. "So I can drive you home."

She took the clothes without meeting my eyes, the bundle forming a barrier between us.

For just a moment, I wanted to say something more. Something to bridge the gap that seemed to be widening despite our promises. But the words wouldn't come.

Her fingers brushed mine as she took her clothes, and then she was moving past me toward the bathroom, taking with her all the questions I couldn't bring myself to ask.