I hear it now—the scrape of metal on stone, distant but closing. The sound cuts through sleep like a blade, and I'm awake before my eyes open, my hand already reaching for her. But she's not there. The space beside me is cold.
Siobhan is already moving, pulling on her dress with practiced silence, her eyes fixed on the window where the gray dawn is just beginning to bleed through. I watch her become someone else—the woman who planned this escape, who memorized every back road and safe house. Her hands don't shake as she fastens the buttons. Her breath is steady.
"Siobhan." My voice comes out rough, still caught in sleep. She doesn't turn. She's listening. I hear it too now—the scrape again, closer this time, the sound of something being dragged across the flagstones outside. A boot. A body. A weapon.
I'm out of bed, trousers on, no time for the rest. She turns to me, and for a moment, the mask slips—I see the terror underneath, the same terror I feel, and I understand that this is what love costs in a country that doesn't want us to have it. Her eyes are wide, the green gone dark, and I can see her calculating, running through every exit, every plan, every impossible choice.
I cross the room in two steps, my hand finding the back of her neck, pulling her forehead to mine. "We don't know it's him."
"Who else would it be?" Her voice is a whisper, barely there. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Maeve said no one knows we're here."
I don't answer. I can't. The scrape comes again, and this time I place it—metal on stone, like a shovel being lifted, like a grave being dug. I feel her stiffen, her fingers digging into my arm.
"The back window," she says. "If we go through the fields—"
"And if it's not him? If it's a farmer? A neighbor?" I pull back, meet her eyes. "We don't run blind."
She bites her lip, hard enough to leave a mark. "Then what do we do?"
I look at the window. The dawn is getting brighter, the gray bleeding into pink. I can hear birds now, the first morning calls, and underneath them, silence. The scrape has stopped.
"We wait," I say. "We listen."
She shakes her head, a quick, sharp motion. "I didn't bring you all this way to wait for someone to find us."
"You brought me all this way to keep us alive." I keep my voice low, steady, the same voice I use on a piece of oak when I'm trying to talk it into holding together. "And alive means not running into the dark without knowing what's out there."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, the fire in her eyes warring with the fear. Then she nods, once, and I feel her relax a fraction against me.
I move to the window, keeping to the side, pressing my back against the wall. The glass is cold, streaked with condensation. I tilt my head just enough to see.
Outside, the garden is still. The grass is wet with dew, and the stone wall at the edge is dark with moss. Beyond it, the field slopes up toward a stand of bare trees, their branches black against the sky. Nothing moves. No one walks.
But the shovel is there. Leaning against the wall, right where the scrape was loudest. It wasn't there last night—I would have noticed. I catalogued every object in that garden when we arrived, every possible hiding place, every line of sight. The shovel is new.
"Someone was here," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "They left a shovel against the wall."
I hear her cross the room, feel her presence at my shoulder. She looks past me, and I watch her process the same information I did, her jaw tightening.
"It's a message," she says. "Billy's way of telling us he knows where we are."
"Or it's a farmer who forgot his tools."
"Declan." Her hand finds mine, squeezes. "We both know it's not."
I do know. I've known since I heard the scrape, since I woke to find her already moving, already planning. But admitting it means admitting we're not safe, that Maeve's cottage, the Republic, the border between us and Belfast—none of it is enough. Billy Patterson can reach us anywhere. He has reach, he has patience, and he has a rifle with my name on it.
"We need to tell Maeve," I say. "We need to move."
"Where?" Her voice cracks on the word, and I hear the exhaustion underneath, the weight of weeks of running, of hiding, of trying to stay alive in a country that wants us dead for loving each other.
I don't have an answer. I hate that I don't have an answer.
I turn from the window, face her fully. Her hair is loose, tangled from sleep, and there's a crease on her cheek from the pillowcase. She looks younger in this light, softer, like the girl she was before all of this, before the threats and the midnight escapes and the taste of fear that never quite leaves your mouth.
"We find somewhere else," I say, because I have to say something. "There are other safe houses. Other people who might help us."
"Who?" Her eyes search mine. "My father's contacts are exhausted. Your mother is alone in the Shankill. Maeve risked everything bringing us here." She steps closer, her hand coming up to my chest, resting over my heart. "There's no one else, Declan. There's just us."
I cover her hand with mine, feel the beat of her pulse matching my own. "Then we make do. We find a way."
The words feel hollow, even to me. But she nods, because she needs to believe them as much as I do.
We stand there in the gray dawn, her hand on my heart, my hand over hers, listening to the silence that follows the scrape. Somewhere out there, Billy Patterson is waking up, or maybe he never slept, maybe he's been tracking us this whole time, waiting for the right moment to close the distance.
I should tell her to pack. I should tell her to get ready. But I can't bring myself to break this moment, this small pocket of stillness where we're still together, still breathing, still alive.
She feels it too. I can tell by the way she doesn't pull away, by the way her hand stays on my chest, tracing small circles over my skin. She's memorizing this. Storing it away for whatever comes next.
"I keep thinking about my mother," I say, and the words surprise me. I hadn't meant to speak them. "Whether she made it to the church. Whether Sean's men got there in time."
Siobhan's hand stills. "Your mother is strong. She survived the Troubles before. She'll survive this."
"She survived by staying quiet. By not drawing attention. By making herself small enough that no one noticed her." I shake my head. "And now I've made her a target. Because of me, Billy knows where to find her."
She moves closer, her body pressing against mine, her arms sliding around my waist. "You didn't make her a target. Billy did. The men who killed your brother did. The men who can't stand the thought of two people from different sides loving each other—they're the ones who made her a target." She looks up at me, her eyes fierce. "Not you."
I want to believe her. God, I want to believe her. But I can still see the look on my mother's face when Siobhan came to our door, the way she'd braced herself for something terrible, the way she'd known, even then, that this love would cost her something.
"Come back to bed," Siobhan says softly. "Just for a little while."
"We should—"
"We should stay alive," she interrupts. "And right now, staying alive means not exhausting ourselves to the point where we can't think clearly." She takes my hand, tugs gently. "Come back to bed."
I let her lead me. The mattress rustles as we lie down, the iron frame creaking under our weight. She curls into me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart again. I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the smell of her hair, the lavender soap she's been using since we arrived.
We lie there in silence, watching the dawn grow brighter through the window. The birds are louder now, and I can hear the distant sound of a tractor starting up somewhere, the ordinary morning sounds of a country that doesn't know we're hiding in it.
I should be thinking about what comes next. I should be planning our next move, our next hiding place, our next escape. But all I can think about is the weight of her against me, the warmth of her breath on my chest, the way she fits perfectly in my arms, like she was made to be held here.
"I love you," I say, and the words feel too small for what I mean, but I don't know how else to say it. I love you, and I don't know how to keep you safe. I love you, and I'm terrified. I love you, and I'd burn the whole island down before I let anyone take you from me.
She tilts her head up, her lips brushing my jaw. "I know." Her hand slides up my chest, her fingers tracing the line of my collarbone. "I love you too."
There's a weight in the silence after that, a heaviness that settles between us. We're both thinking the same thing—that this might be the last time we say it, the last time we lie together like this, the last time we feel safe in each other's arms.
I don't know how long we lie there. Minutes, hours. The light changes, brightening to a pale gold that spills across the floor. The sounds outside shift—birdsong giving way to the distant hum of a car, footsteps on gravel, voices I can't quite make out.
I stiffen. Siobhan feels it, her hand pausing on my chest.
"What is it?"
I don't answer. I'm listening, straining to hear through the walls, through the window. The footsteps are getting closer. The voices are clearer now—two men, maybe three, their accents rough and familiar. Belfast accents. Not the soft lilt of the Republic.
I untangle myself from her, moving to the window again. I don't have to be careful this time. I can see them clearly—three men standing in the garden, one of them holding the shovel, the other two with their hands in their pockets, casual, unhurried. They're looking at the cottage. They're looking at my window.
I recognize the man in the middle. I've seen him before, at the pub, at the peace wall, at the edges of every place Billy Patterson has ever been. He's one of Billy's men. He's the one who found us.
"Declan." Siobhan's voice is tight. "Who is it?"
I don't turn around. I can't take my eyes off them. "Billy's men."
I hear her get up, feel her standing behind me, her hand finding mine. Together, we watch them. They don't move toward the cottage. They just stand there, looking up at us, waiting. Like they know we have nowhere to run. Like they know this is the end.
Siobhan's hand squeezes mine, hard enough to hurt. "What do we do?"
I think about the back window. The fields. The road that leads back to Dublin, back to a life that might not want us. I think about my mother, waiting in a church in Belfast, not knowing if I'm alive or dead. I think about all the promises I made her, all the times I said I'd come back, and how I'm not sure I can keep them.
But Siobhan is beside me. Her hand is in mine. And I can feel the terror underneath her grip, the same terror I feel, the same fear that's been chasing us since the first night we met in that butcher's back room.
I look at the men standing in the garden, and I think about what Siobhan said—about not running blind, about staying alive, about finding a way. I don't know what that way looks like. I don't know if we'll make it through this.
But I know I'm not letting go of her hand.
"We wait," I say again, and this time the words feel different. They feel like a vow. "We wait, and we watch, and we don't let them see us break."
She turns to me, her eyes searching mine. For a long moment, she doesn't say anything. Then she nods, slow and deliberate, and I see the fire in her eyes again, the same fire that carried her through every impossible choice, every midnight escape, every line she crossed to be with me.
She leans up and kisses me. Soft. Quick. A promise.
"Then we wait," she says.
We stand at the window, watching the men watch us, the dawn full and golden around us. The birds are still singing. The tractor is still running. The ordinary morning sounds of a country that doesn't know we're fighting for our lives.
And we wait.
She breaks from my grasp and moves toward the window, defiant, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. I reach for her, but my hand catches nothing but air.
"Siobhan—"
"No." She doesn't look back at me. Her voice is steel wrapped in silk, the same voice she used at the checkpoint when she told the soldier we were married. "I'm done hiding in shadows. If they want to see me, let them see me."
She stops at the window, her hand resting on the sill. The morning light catches her hair, turns it to copper and rust, and I watch her square her shoulders, lift her chin, become something I've never seen before. A queen surveying her kingdom, or a prisoner facing her executioner with nothing but grace.
I move to stand beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her, the trembling she's trying to hide. The three men in the garden haven't moved. They're watching, waiting, hands in their pockets like they have all the time in the world.
"What are you doing?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Showing them we're not afraid." She doesn't look at me when she says it. Her eyes are fixed on the man in the middle, the one I recognize from Billy's pub. "That's what they want, isn't it? Fear. Panic. Us running blind into the dark so they can pick us off."
I want to argue. I want to pull her away from the window, drag her to the back door, make a run for the fields behind the cottage. But she's right, and I hate that she's right, because running is all I know how to do.
The man in the middle shifts his weight. He's older than the other two, maybe fifty, with a face like a clenched fist and eyes that have seen too much. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with deliberate slowness, and takes a long drag.
Siobhan doesn't flinch. She plants her feet, folds her arms, and waits.
Minutes pass. The cigarette burns down. The man takes one last drag, drops it, crushes it under his boot. Then he turns and walks away, the other two falling into step behind him, disappearing around the side of the cottage.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"They'll be back," Siobhan says, finally turning to face me. There's no fear in her eyes—only a cold, clear certainty that makes my chest ache. "But not today."
"How do you know?"
"Because they came to test us," she says, reaching for my hand. Her fingers are ice, but her grip is steady. "To see if we'd break. We didn't. So now they'll report back to Billy, and he'll decide what to do next."
I pull her into my arms, pressing my lips to her forehead. She feels small against me, fragile in a way I don't want to acknowledge. "What do we do until then?"
She tilts her head up, her green eyes searching mine. "We live."
I don't know what that means. I don't know how to live when every breath feels borrowed, every moment a gift that could be taken back at any second. But she's looking at me like I have the answers, like I'm the one who can keep us safe, and I don't have the heart to tell her I'm just as lost as she is.
"Then we live," I say, and I try to make it sound like a promise.
She smiles, quick and fragile, and leans up to kiss me. Her lips are cold, but they warm against mine, and for a moment I forget about the men in the garden, the threat hanging over us, the world outside this cottage that wants us dead. There's only her mouth, her breath, her hands fisting in my shirt.
The kiss deepens. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and I feel it everywhere, a tremor that starts in my chest and spreads through my limbs. I walk her backward, step by step, until her hips hit the edge of the iron bed frame.
"Declan," she whispers, and the way she says my name—like a prayer, like a plea—undoes me.
I lay her down on the mattress, the straw rustling beneath us, and I take my time. I kiss her jaw, her throat, the soft hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse flutters like a trapped bird. Her hands find the hem of my shirt, tugging it up, and I let her pull it over my head, the cold air hitting my skin.
She traces the line of my collarbone with her fingertips, featherlight, and I shiver. "I thought we were going to die," she says, her voice barely audible. "When I saw them standing there, I thought—"
"Don't." I catch her hand, press my lips to her palm. "Don't think about it. Not now."
She nods, swallowing hard, and I see the tears she's holding back, glittering in the morning light. I kiss them away, tasting salt, and she laughs, a broken, beautiful sound that cuts through the silence like a blade.
"You're too good to me," she says.
"Impossible." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "There's no such thing as too good for you."
She pulls me down, kissing me again, harder this time, and I let myself be pulled. Her hands slide down my back, nails raking lightly, and I groan against her mouth. I reach for the buttons of her dress, fumbling, but she catches my wrists, stopping me.
"Just hold me," she says, and there's something raw in her voice, something that makes my heart crack open. "Just hold me for a while."
I obey. I gather her into my arms, roll onto my side, and pull her against my chest, her back to my front. I press my lips to the curve of her shoulder, breathe in the scent of her, and feel the slow rhythm of her breathing as she settles against me.
We lie there in silence, the morning light crawling across the floor, the birds singing their oblivious songs. I listen to her heartbeat, steady and sure, and I let it anchor me. I let it remind me why we're still fighting, why we haven't given up, why I'll keep running for as long as my legs will carry me.
Because she's here. Because she chose me. Because even in a world that wants us dead, this moment—this one, right now—is worth everything I'll have to pay.
Her hand finds mine, laces our fingers together over her heart. "Tell me something," she says. "Something I don't know about you."
I think about it. My mind reaches for something small, something she hasn't seen, something that belongs only to me. "I used to climb the tree in our back garden when I was a boy," I say. "There was a branch that overlooked the whole street. I'd sit up there for hours, watching the neighbors come and go, imagining I was somewhere else. Somewhere where the Troubles weren't real, where people didn't hate each other for the God they prayed to."
She squeezes my hand. "What did you imagine?"
"I imagined a girl with red hair and green eyes who'd walk up the street one day and look up and see me." I smile against her hair. "And she'd climb up to join me, and we'd sit there together, watching the world go by, and nothing would be able to touch us."
She laughs, soft and wet. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."
"It's true."
She turns in my arms, facing me, her eyes bright with tears she refuses to let fall. "I used to imagine the same thing," she says. "A boy with gray eyes and sawdust in his hair, who'd show up at my classroom door and take my hand and lead me somewhere safe." She traces the line of my jaw, her touch featherlight. "And then you showed up, and it wasn't safe at all. It was terrifying. And I wouldn't trade it for anything."
I kiss her again, slow and deep, and I feel the weight of her words settle into my bones. She's right. It's terrifying. Every moment with her is a risk, a gamble, a defiance of forces much larger than us. But I wouldn't trade it either.
I wouldn't trade any of it.
We stay in bed until the sun is high, until the shadows shorten and the day warms. We talk about nothing—childhood memories, favorite books, the way the light falls through the window in her classroom back in Belfast. We avoid the heavy things, the things that wait for us outside this room, and for a few stolen hours, we're just two people in love, pretending the world doesn't exist.
I'm the one who breaks it. I feel it in the air first—a shift, a tension that wasn't there a moment ago. I lift my head, listening, and I hear it: the crunch of gravel under boots, coming closer.
I slide out of bed, pulling on my trousers, moving to the window. Siobhan is behind me a second later, her hand finding my shoulder.
Three men again. But different men this time. Younger. Harder. One of them carries a rifle, slung casual over his shoulder, like it's a tool of the trade rather than a weapon of death.
"They're not waiting this time," I say, and I hear the hollow in my own voice.
Siobhan's grip tightens on my shoulder. "Then neither are we."
She turns, pulling on her dress with quick, practiced movements. I watch her become the woman who planned this escape, who memorized every back road and safe house, who stared down three men in a garden and didn't blink. She turns to me, and for a moment, the mask slips—I see the terror underneath, the same terror I feel, and I understand that this is what love costs in a country that doesn't want us to have it.
She crosses to me, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me hard, like she's memorizing the feel of my lips against hers. "Whatever happens," she says, her voice steady despite the tremor I feel in her hands, "I love you. I chose you. And I would choose you again, every time."
I press my forehead to hers. "Same," I say. "Same, love."
She pulls back, her eyes searching mine, and then she lets go. She moves to the bedroom door, opens it, and steps into the hallway. I follow, one step behind her, ready for whatever comes next.
The cottage is quiet. Maeve is nowhere to be seen—probably still in her room, or perhaps she heard the footsteps too and is hiding. The front door is closed, but I can see the shape of men through the frosted glass, dark silhouettes against the bright morning.
Siobhan stops at the door. She looks back at me, and there's something in her eyes I can't name—a challenge, a question, a promise.
"Together?" she asks.
I take her hand.
"Together."
She opens the door.
She opens the door.
The morning light hits us full in the face, sharp and cold, and I blink against it. The three men are maybe twenty feet away, standing in a loose semicircle on the gravel path. They've stopped walking, caught off guard by the door opening before they could knock or call out. The one with the rifle—young, maybe twenty-two, with a thin mustache and dead eyes—lifts the weapon just slightly, not aiming, just showing it's there.
Siobhan's hand is warm in mine. She steps forward, and I step with her, matching her pace. The gravel crunches under our bare feet—I hadn't even thought to put on shoes. The cold bites into my soles, but I don't slow down.
We stop a few feet from them. Siobhan lets go of my hand and crosses her arms, standing straight, her chin lifted. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, still tangled from sleep, and she's wearing the same dress she pulled on in the dark, buttons crooked.
She looks at each of them in turn, slow and deliberate, like she's memorizing their faces for a reckoning she'll deliver herself. Then she speaks.
"You're on private land." Her voice is steady, almost bored. "And you're carrying a rifle in the Republic. That's a long prison sentence if I decide to pick up the phone."
The young one with the rifle shifts his weight, glancing at the older man to his left. That one is maybe forty, gray at the temples, with a scar splitting his eyebrow. He's the one who speaks.
"We're not here for trouble, miss." His accent is Belfast, but thick, rural Antrim. "We're here to deliver a message."
"Then deliver it," Siobhan says. "And leave."
The scarred man looks at me. His eyes travel down my bare chest, my unbuttoned trousers, my feet. A flicker of contempt, quickly hidden. "Billy Patterson sends his regards. He says you ran like a good boy, but the game ain't over. He's got your mother, Morrow. He'll keep her safe as long as you come back to Belfast and face him like a man. If you don't show by sundown tomorrow, he'll send her to you piece by piece."
The words land like a punch to the gut. I feel the air leave my lungs, and for a second I can't see—just a red haze around the edges of my vision. My hands clench into fists at my sides.
Siobhan steps forward, putting herself between me and the scarred man. "You're lying," she says, but her voice wavers now, just a crack. "You don't have her. She's in a church in Belfast, under my father's protection."
The scarred man smiles, thin and cold. "Your father's protection runs about as deep as a puddle in a drought, miss. Billy's men found her at dawn. She's in a lock-up on the Shankill, waiting for her boy to come home." He tilts his head at me. "What's it gonna be, Morrow? You gonna let your mother die for a bit of Catholic cunt?"
I'm moving before I know it. Siobhan's hand catches my wrist, yanks me back. "No." Her voice is sharp, commanding. "That's what he wants. Don't give him the excuse."
I stop, chest heaving, every muscle in my body screaming to launch myself at the scarred man and beat him until his face is pulp. But she's right. I know she's right. If I touch him, the rifle comes up, and it's over for both of us.
I swallow, force my hands to unclench. "I'll come," I say, my voice hoarse. "Just tell me where."
"Declan, no—" Siobhan starts, but I shake my head.
"I won't let her die for me." I look at the scarred man. "Where?"
The scarred man's smile widens. "The old warehouse on Dover Street. Sundown tomorrow. Come alone, or your mother's throat gets cut. And Morrow?" He pauses, letting the silence stretch. "Bring the girl. Billy wants to meet her proper-like."
Siobhan goes still beside me. I feel her hand tighten on my wrist, then release. She steps forward, right up to the scarred man, close enough that she could spit in his face if she wanted.
"Tell Billy Patterson," she says, her voice low and clear, "that we'll be there. Together. And tell him to say his prayers, because when we're done, there won't be enough of him left to bury."
The scarred man's smile flickers. He wasn't expecting that. He recovers quickly, steps back, and gestures to the young man with the rifle. "We'll pass along the message. Enjoy your last day of freedom, lovebirds."
He turns and walks back down the gravel path toward a dark car parked at the end of the lane. The other two follow, the young one keeping the rifle slung but his eyes on us until the car doors close.
The engine starts, gravel spits, and the car pulls away, disappearing around the bend.
The silence rushes back in, broken only by birdsong and the distant hum of a tractor somewhere in the fields. I stand there, barefoot on the cold gravel, staring at the empty road where the car vanished.
Siobhan's hand finds mine again, cold and trembling. I look at her. Her face is pale, her freckles standing out like ink spots on paper, but her jaw is set, and her eyes are dry.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words hollow. "I should have—"
"Don't." She cuts me off, squeezing my hand. "Don't apologize for loving your mother. I'd do the same." She turns to face me fully, and I see the fear underneath the mask now, raw and open. "But Declan, we can't go back. Not like this. Not alone. We need a plan."
I nod, but my mind is still reeling. My mother. In a lock-up on the Shankill. Waiting for me to come and die for her. And Siobhan—I can't bring her into that. I can't.
She sees the thought cross my face, and her grip tightens. "Don't even think about going alone. You promised me—together. Remember?"
I remember. I remember every word I said. But the weight of what's coming presses down on my chest, and I don't know if promises can survive the morning.
Maeve's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and worried. "What happened? I heard a car—" She appears in the cottage doorway, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes darting between us and the empty road.
Siobhan turns to her, and her voice is steady again, the mask back in place. "They have Declan's mother. We have until sundown tomorrow to get to Belfast." She pauses, and I see the calculation in her eyes. "We need to call my father. Now."
Maeve's face goes pale, but she nods, stepping aside to let us back into the cottage. I follow Siobhan inside, my bare feet cold against the stone floor, my mother's face floating in my mind like a ghost that hasn't learned it's dead yet.
We have twenty-four hours. And I have no idea how we're going to survive them.
Maeve's cottage kitchen smells of turf smoke and old bread. Siobhan is already at the telephone, her finger tracing the rotary dial as if she's trying to remember a number she's called a thousand times. I stand in the doorway, watching her, my bare feet cold on the flagstones.
She dials. The click of the rotary is loud in the silence. She waits, her jaw tight, her free hand gripping the edge of the table.
"Da." Her voice cracks on the single syllable. She listens, and I watch her face shift through a dozen emotions in the span of a breath—relief, fear, anger, despair. "No, we're safe. But Da, they have his mother. Billy's men took her from the church this morning."
Another pause. Longer this time. I can hear the distant rumble of Sean Connolly's voice through the earpiece, but not the words. Siobhan's knuckles go white on the receiver.
"I don't care what you tried. They have her. Declan's mother. In a lock-up on the Shankill." She closes her eyes, presses her free hand to her forehead. "Da, listen to me. We're coming back. Tomorrow. Sundown. Billy wants us both at the Dover Street warehouse."
I step forward, reaching for the phone. "Let me talk to him."
Siobhan shakes her head, holding up a hand to stop me. "Da, I know. I know. But we can't leave his mother to die. You wouldn't. You wouldn't leave Mam to die." Her voice breaks on the word Mam, and I see her swallow hard. "We need help. We need men who can watch our backs. Can you get word to Michael Devlin? Tell him we're coming in tomorrow afternoon, and we need a plan."
She listens again. Nods. "Aye. I know. I love you too." She hangs up slowly, the receiver clicking into place with a sound like a door closing.
She stands there for a long moment, her back to me, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Then she turns, and I see the tears she's been holding back, gleaming on her lashes.
"He's furious," she says, her voice flat. "He tried everything. Called in every favor. But Billy's men were already inside the church before his boys got there. They took her before dawn."
I cross the room and take her hands. They're cold, trembling. "What did he say?"
She meets my eyes, and I see the fear there, raw and unguarded. "He said we're walking into a trap. That Billy won't let us leave that warehouse alive. That we should run—disappear into the Republic, change our names, start over." She laughs, a bitter sound with no joy in it. "I told him no. I told him we're going back."
"And?"
"He said he'll have men at the border. Wexler's old crew. Men who owe him." She squeezes my hands. "But Declan, it's not enough. You know it's not enough. Billy's expecting us. He'll have guns, maybe a dozen men. We're walking into a slaughter."
I pull her into my arms, holding her tight. She presses her face into my chest, and I feel her breath hot against my skin, her body shaking with silent sobs.
"I won't let him hurt you," I say, the words stupid and hollow and the only thing I have.
She pulls back, looks up at me with those green eyes, red-rimmed and fierce. "You can't promise that. You know you can't."
I don't answer. Because she's right.
Maeve appears in the kitchen doorway, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She looks at us, at the tears on Siobhan's face, and her own face goes pale. "What happened?"
Siobhan tells her, quick and flat, the words stripped of all emotion. Maeve listens, her hand moving to the cross at her throat. When Siobhan finishes, Maeve is silent for a long moment. Then she says, "You can't go back. It's madness. He'll kill you both."
"We don't have a choice," Siobhan says, and her voice is steady again, that iron I've come to know and love. "His mother is in a lock-up. We can't leave her to die."
Maeve looks at me, her eyes searching. "And you? You'd take her into that?"
I feel the weight of the question, the judgment in it. "No," I say, quiet. "I'd go alone. But she won't let me."
"Damn right I won't," Siobhan says, and there's fire in her voice now. "We promised. Together. You don't get to break that promise because you're scared."
"I'm not scared for me." The words come out rough, raw. "I'm scared for you. I can't—Siobhan, I can't watch you die. I can't."
"Then don't." She steps closer, her hands coming up to cup my face. "Don't let me die. Keep me alive. That's what you do, Declan Morrow. You keep me alive. You've been doing it since the moment I walked into that butcher's shop."
I close my eyes, leaning into her touch. "I can't do this without you."
"Then don't. We do it together." Her thumb traces my cheekbone, gentle, insistent. "Promise me. Promise me you won't try to face Billy alone."
I open my eyes. She's watching me, her gaze unwavering, the same look she had when she faced down the scarred man in the garden. Fierce. Unbreakable.
"I promise," I say, and the words feel like a vow, like something sacred. "Together."
She nods, once, and kisses me. Soft, tender, a promise sealed in warmth. When she pulls back, her eyes are dry, her jaw set.
"Good. Then let's figure out how we're going to survive tomorrow."
Maeve clears her throat. "I have tea. And bread. And a bottle of whiskey that's older than either of you." She gestures to the table. "Sit. Eat. We have time. We'll make a plan."
We sit. Maeve brings the tea, the bread, the whiskey. We talk—or Siobhan talks, laying out possibilities, contingencies, routes. I listen, adding a word here, a detail there, but my mind is elsewhere. My mother. The lock-up. The warehouse. The bullet that's waiting for me at the end of it all.
The afternoon passes. Maeve makes stew. We eat in silence, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on us like a physical thing. I watch Siobhan across the table, the way she moves, the way she talks with her hands, the way her hair falls loose around her shoulders. She's beautiful. She's brave. She's everything I never knew I needed.
And I'm going to get her killed.
Evening comes. The light through the cottage window turns gold, then amber, then gray. Maeve lights a lamp, and the flames cast dancing shadows on the walls. Siobhan is quiet now, her energy spent, her head resting on her folded arms on the table.
"You should sleep," I say, my hand resting on her back. "We have a long day tomorrow."
She looks up at me, and I see the exhaustion in her eyes. "I'm not sure I can."
"Come on." I take her hand, pull her gently to her feet. "I'll stay with you."
Maeve nods from her chair by the fire. "Go on. I'll keep watch."
I lead Siobhan to the back bedroom. The same narrow bed, the same cold sheets, the same moonlight slanting through the single window. She sits on the edge of the mattress, and I kneel in front of her, taking her hands.
"I love you," I say, the words simple, true. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever happens in that warehouse—I love you. And I don't regret a single second of this."
Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn't let them fall. "I love you too. And I'm not letting you go. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
I lean forward, kiss her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She tilts her head, catches my lips with hers, and the kiss deepens, slow and desperate, a promise made in the dark.
We lie down fully dressed, her head on my chest, my arm around her, the room cold around us. She traces patterns on my shirt, her breath warm against my skin.
"Tell me something," she whispers. "Something I don't know about you."
I think for a moment. "I used to carve birds. When I was a boy. Wooden birds. My father taught me." I pause. "I haven't done it since he died."
She looks up at me. "Why not?"
"I don't know. Maybe because it hurt too much. Maybe because I forgot how."
Her hand finds mine, interlacing our fingers. "Will you carve one for me? When this is over?"
I smile, the first time in hours that feels real. "Aye. I'll carve you a hundred birds. A whole flock. We'll fill your room with them."
She laughs, soft and broken, and presses her face into my chest. "I'd like that."
I hold her, feeling her breath slow against my chest. The room is cold, the moonlight painting silver stripes across the wall, and I want to memorize every detail—the way her fingers curl into my shirt, the soft sound she makes when she exhales, the weight of her body pressed against mine.
"Siobhan." I say her name quietly, like a prayer I'm not sure God will hear.
She tilts her head up, her green eyes catching the light. "What?"
"I need you to know something." My hand finds her hair, threads through the red strands loose around her shoulders. "If I could go back—if I could choose again—I'd still walk into that shop. I'd still wait for you. I'd still love you, even knowing how it ends."
Her jaw tightens. "It doesn't end. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
"I know." I kiss her forehead, let my lips linger there. "But if it did—if something happens and I don't—"
"Don't." Her voice cracks. "Don't you dare."
"I have to say it." I pull back, meet her eyes. "If I don't make it, you run. You get Maeve and you go south, to Cork, to the coast, anywhere. You don't come back for me. You don't try to save me. You live."
She pushes up on one elbow, staring down at me. "No."
"Siobhan—"
"No. I didn't drag you across the border, I didn't lie to my father, I didn't risk everything just to watch you throw yourself into Billy Patterson's rifle." Her voice rises, cracks, steadies. "You promised me. Together. You said the word. You don't get to take it back."
"I'm not taking it back." I reach up, cup her face. "I'm trying to make sure you survive."
"Then survive with me." She grabs my wrist, holds it tight. "That's the deal. That's the only deal. You don't get to be a martyr, Declan Morrow. You don't get to die beautiful and tragic and leave me alone."
Her eyes are wet now, but she doesn't blink. Doesn't look away.
"Promise me," she says, her voice low and fierce. "Promise me you won't try to face Billy alone. Promise me you'll stay with me, no matter what happens in that warehouse. Promise me you'll fight to live."
I open my mouth to speak, but she presses her fingers against my lips.
"Say it. Say the words."
I take her hand, lower it, hold it against my chest. "I promise. I'll stay with you. I'll fight to live."
She exhales, a shuddering breath, and drops her forehead to mine. "Good. Because I can't do this without you. I won't."
I pull her down, wrap my arms around her, hold her so tight I can feel her heartbeat through both our clothes. She curls into me, her face pressed into my neck, her breath warm and uneven.
"We should sleep," I whisper. "We have hours before dawn."
"I know." But she doesn't move. Doesn't loosen her grip.
I stroke her back, slow circles, the way I've learned calms her. After a long moment, her breathing evens out, her body softening against mine. She's asleep, or close to it, and I let myself watch her—the curve of her cheek, the freckles scattered across her nose, the way her lips part slightly when she's at rest.
I don't sleep.
I lie awake in the dark, listening to the cottage settle around us. The creak of old wood. The distant hoot of an owl. The soft rustle of the straw mattress as Siobhan shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can't quite catch.
I think about my mother. About the church where Billy's men took her. About the look on her face when she told me to go, to run, to save myself.
I think about the warehouse. About the bullet with my name on it.
I think about Siobhan, asleep in my arms, trusting me to keep her safe.
Hours pass. The moonlight shifts across the wall, then fades as clouds roll in. The room grows darker, colder. I pull the thin blanket over us both, tuck it around her shoulders.
Sometime in the deepest part of the night, she stirs. Lifts her head. Blinks at me in the darkness.
"You're still awake."
"Couldn't sleep."
She studies me for a moment, then reaches up, traces my jaw with her fingertips. "What are you thinking about?"
"You." It's not a lie. "Us. Tomorrow."
She shifts, moves closer, her lips brushing my chin. "Then stop thinking."
"Siobhan—"
"Stop thinking." Her hand slides down my chest, rests over my heart. "Just be here. With me. Right now."
I close my eyes. Let myself feel her—the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the way she fits against me like she was made to.
"I love you," I say, because there's nothing else worth saying.
"I know." She presses a kiss to my throat. "I love you too."
She settles back against my side, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart. And somehow, in the dark, with her safe in my arms, I finally feel my eyes grow heavy.
I dream of birds. Wooden birds, their wings half-carved, their beaks open in songs I can't hear. I dream of Siobhan, standing in a field of green, her hair loose in the wind, a flock of carved birds circling above her head.
I dream of my father's hands, rough and steady, guiding mine as I hold the knife to the wood.
Easy now, lad. Let the grain tell you where to cut.
I wake to gray light seeping through the window. Dawn. The room is cold, the fire long dead, and Siobhan is already sitting up, her eyes fixed on the window.
"What is it?" I ask, my voice rough with sleep.
She doesn't look at me. "I heard something."
I sit up, my heart pounding. "What?"
"A car. Distant. Then nothing." She turns to me, and her face is calm, but her eyes are sharp. "It's almost time."
I reach for her hand, squeeze it. "Together."
She nods, once. "Together."
We dress in silence. The cottage is quiet—Maeve must still be asleep, or pretending to be. I find my boots by the door, lace them tight. Siobhan pins up her hair with practiced efficiency, the same motion she's done a thousand times, but I notice her fingers tremble.
I step behind her, rest my hands on her shoulders. She stills.
"Hey." I lean down, speak softly. "You're the bravest person I know. You've gotten us this far. We're going to finish this."
She turns, looks up at me. Her green eyes hold mine, searching for something. Finding it.
"I know," she says. "I'm not scared of dying, Declan. I'm scared of losing you."
I kiss her. Soft. Slow. A promise in the gray dawn light.
"You won't," I say against her lips. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
She pulls back, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Good. Then let's go get your mother back."
Maeve is in the kitchen. She's sitting at the table, a cup of tea untouched in front of her, the steam curling into the gray light. She looks up when we enter, and her face is calm, but her hands are wrapped around the mug like she's holding onto something solid.
"You're up," she says. Not a question.
"We're leaving," Siobhan says, her voice steady. "We have to go get his mother."
Maeve nods slowly. She pushes her chair back, stands, and walks to the stove. She pours two cups of tea, slides them across the counter toward us. "You'll need something warm before you go."
I take the cup. The heat seeps through the ceramic, grounds me. Siobhan wraps her fingers around hers but doesn't drink.
"We don't have much time," I say.
"You have time for tea." Maeve's eyes meet mine, and there's something old in them, something that's seen too much. "Sit."
Siobhan glances at me. I nod, pull out a chair. She sits beside me, her knee pressing against mine under the table. Maeve settles back into her seat across from us, her hands still cradling her mug.
"My daughter told me about Billy Patterson," Maeve says. "About his threats. About the warehouse." She pauses, her gaze shifting to Siobhan. "You're walking into a trap."
"We know," Siobhan says.
"Then you know there's no guarantee you'll come back."
Siobhan's jaw tightens. "We know."
Maeve turns to me. "You love her?"
"More than anything." The words come without hesitation, raw and true.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods once. "Then listen to me, Declan Morrow. When you step outside that door, you're not just fighting for your mother. You're fighting for her. For what you have. Don't forget that."
"I won't."
She reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out something small, wrapped in cloth. She sets it on the table, slides it toward me. I unwrap it—a small wooden cross, carved by hand, the grain smooth from years of holding.
"It was my husband's," she says. "He carried it through the worst of it. It didn't save him, but it gave him something to hold onto."
I close my fingers around it, feel the weight of it, the warmth of her faith pressed into the wood. "Thank you."
She gives a single nod. "Now drink your tea. It might be the last warm thing you have for a while."
I raise the cup, sip the bitter brew. Siobhan does the same, her hands steady. The kitchen clock ticks. A dog barks somewhere distant. Outside, the world waits.
When the cups are empty, Maeve stands. She walks around the table, pulls Siobhan into a hug. I watch Siobhan's shoulders shake once, then still. Maeve murmurs something in Irish, soft and low, and Siobhan nods into her shoulder.
Then Maeve turns to me. She's shorter than I am, but when she reaches up and cups my face in her hands, I feel like a boy again. "You bring her back," she says. "And bring yourself back too. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
She releases me, steps back. "Go on, then. The door's unlocked."
Siobhan takes my hand, her fingers cold but sure. We walk to the front door together. I pause, look back. Maeve is still standing by the table, one hand on the back of her chair, her face unreadable.
I open the door.
The cold air hits us, sharp with the smell of earth and wet stone. The sky is a pale gray, the sun not yet risen. The lane stretches empty, hedgerows heavy with dew. Somewhere, a bird calls once, then falls silent.
Siobhan steps out beside me, her hand still in mine. She takes a breath, lets it out slowly.
"Together," she says.
"Together."
We start walking.
And then I hear it—the scrape of metal on stone, distant but closing. I stop. Siobhan's hand tightens on mine. Her eyes are fixed on the lane ahead, where the sound seems to come from, a low grinding like a shovel being dragged across gravel.
I don't move. Siobhan doesn't move.
The sound stops.
Silence.
Then a car engine turns over, somewhere out of sight. Not close enough to see. Close enough to know we're not alone.
Siobhan turns to me. Her face is pale, but her eyes are hard. "They know we're here."
I don't answer. I just pull her forward, down the lane, toward whatever's waiting.