Page 144 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“Your poor neck,” Lou murmured.

“Are you going to get in trouble?” Frankie asked.

“It’s just sore,” Myla replied. “And no. I already talked to the FBI. They’ll do a formal inquiry, but no. It was clearly self-defense, and they took photos.”

“You should’ve aimed for the leg or something,” Frankie said. I jerked to a stop, not quite sure I’d heard her right. “Then we could’ve each given him a little kick to remember us by.”

“Sorry,” Myla said with a scoff. “I just wanted him to let go of my throat.”

“You never think ahead,” Frankie muttered. “Selfish.”

“It’s a failing,” Myla agreed, letting out a little teary laugh.

“It’s okay, I forgive you,” Frankie replied.

“You should’ve told someone you were going to get the cake,” Lou said softly. “Then we would’ve known—I thought you weren’t there because you were mad at Cian. I didn’t even think—I’m sorry, My.”

“I was only there for a few minutes,” Myla replied, shaking her head a little. “It all happened pretty fast. You guys couldn’t have stopped it.”

I leaned against the wall and waited while they fussed over her some more. Eventually, Lou and Frankie headed to their own rooms and Myla walked over to the sink for a glass of water.

“You pissed?” I asked quietly.

“I’m not sure what I am,” she turned to look at me. “Am I the only one who didn’t know?”

“Ronan and my sisters know,” I replied. “And the club.”

She nodded. “Aisling said something to me about Aoife being in limbo with Richie that first night I went to dinner,” she said softly. “I wondered what she meant. I thought something was wrong with his estate.”

“She probably assumed you knew.”

“Why didn’t I?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Cian, wejusttalked about how you have to tell me shit.” She slammed her glass down on the counter with a thump.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” I shot back, the urge to argue with her wrestling with the urge to treat her like fine China.She’d been through more that night than anyone should have to go through. I didn’t want to make it worse. I’d never want to make it worse. “It’s like sayin’ Bloody Mary in the mirror or some shit. Felt like talkin’ about it, tellin’ someone else that he’d turned rat would bring that shit to our door or somethin’. The less you knew, the better.”

“How’d that work out for you?” she asked sarcastically.

“Not great.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you even sorry about it?” she asked in disbelief.

“Not tellin’ you?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well, then could yousayit?”

“I’m sorry,” I snapped.

“Yeah, that sounds really sincere.”

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