Page 84 of King of the Cage

Bran reached out and took my wrist in his huge hand. He rubbed his long fingers against my pulse point and then around, covering everywhere the handcuff had touched with firm, dragging movements that melted away my stiffness.

“And don’t worry about Mam. She won’t remember who I am anyway, or who you are ten seconds after we leave. I just wanted you to meet her,” he finished.

I followed him to a room and waited as he knocked. A nurse let us in. Sheila O’Connor sat in the bay window, looking down at the gardens below.

“Sheila, your son is here to see you, and he’s brought a lady with him,” the nurse said to Sheila before smiling warmly at Bran.

Clearly, he was a favorite with the nurses here, from the way they all flirted with him. Not that I was jealous or had even noticed. Not at all.

“She’s my wife, actually. We’re newlyweds,” Bran told the nurse.

“Well, I’ll be! Sheila, your boy is married. Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” Bran drifted away with the nurse.

She called over others to come and congratulate him.

I hovered awkwardly before sitting beside Sheila.

She hummed softly. It was a melancholy tune. Then she sang, her voice soft and wistful. I listened along until she stopped. With a jolt, I glanced at her and realized she was staring at me.

“Um, that was a nice song. What’s it called?” I didn’t want to set her off or upset her by mentioning Bran.

“‘The Selkie and the Spring Tide.’ This one’s for you, my dear,” Sheila said.

Her eyes seemed keen and perceptive. Was she having a good spell? I knew it could happen for people with dementia. I had to get Bran.

“I’ll be right back,” I said quickly and stood.

Bran was inside the doorway, still getting praised and patted by the ladies of the nursing staff.

I tugged him inside.

“I think your mom is having a good day,” I told him quickly.

We hurried to Sheila, and Bran crouched beside her.

“Mam?”

Sheila looked away from the fir tree outside the window and gazed at her son. A smile split her face, and she looked ten years younger.

“Brandon. Where have you been?”

“I’m here, Mam, I’m always here. I come and see you every week,” he told her. His deep voice was scratchy.

She stroked his hair. “Don’t let your da know you’re home. He’s been threatening to have your hide for cutting off those lassies’ pigtails, not that they didn’t deserve it.”

Bran’s face fell for a microsecond, but I caught it. His mother wasn’t as lucid as she’d seemed. She was walking the halls of the past, and his visit had been good timing.

“Dae fash, Mam. You know I can take what the old man gives me and more,” Bran said, his Irish brogue turned up to the max.

“I know you can, and you do, but I worry about my boy,” Sheila said, her voice soft. “My big, gentle giant of a man. You’ll find your place one day, I know it.”

Just like that, she turned away and hummed again. Bran watched her for a while. She didn’t acknowledge him.

We left soon after, planning to make our way back to Hell’s Kitchen by cab. I found myself humming Sheila’s tune from earlier as we stood by the curb waiting.

Bran stilled and looked at me curiously.

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