Page 9 of Claiming Pretty

“Is he…?” I asked, my voice barely audible, the unspoken question choking me.

Was he asleep or…?

Ciaran’s head turned to meet my gaze, his eyes unflinching, cold, and utterly unrepentant.

“He won’t ever hurt you again,” he said, his voice calm, almost detached.

There wasn’t a shred of guilt in his tone. No apology. No hesitation. He didn’t even flinch.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, as a storm of emotions roared inside me, crashing and colliding.

Relief, disbelief, guilt—all tangled together so tightly I couldn’t pull them apart.

“What’s going on here?” Ty’s voice rang out behind me, sharp and filled with tension, as he stepped into the room.

His gaze snapped to the professor’s body and he froze, his expression darkening, his eyes wide with realization.

“Father’s dead,” Ciaran said flatly, his voice like a blade cutting through the air.

My gaze drew to the table where the teapot sat there, innocuous and still, its spout tilted slightly toward the edge of the tray.

My teapot.

My tea.

My knees buckled, and before I could hit the floor, Ty caught me, his strong arms wrapping around my trembling frame.

The truth slammed into me like a freight train.

“I did it,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, yet it echoed in the room, undeniable and damning.

Ty’s arms tightened around me, his body a shield against the chaos, but I couldn’t stop the guilt from swallowing me whole.

My tea.

My plan.

My fault.

“I killed him.”

Ihad killed my foster father.

Not Ciaran. He lied to me about killing his father to protect me from the truth.

Not Ty. Who took the blame and went to jail to protect me from the punishment.

Me.

THE SHADOW

Ikneeled in front of my brother’s grave and pressed the blade I’d named in his honor against my stomach, its cold steel biting into my skin.

I imagined Ty laughing from deep below the earth where he lay.

“Forgive me, Ty,” I whispered to the wind as it whipped through the towering yew and cypress trees flanking the winding gravel paths of Glasnevin Cemetery, their gnarled branches entwined above to create shadowy arches.

Around me, Celtic crosses and ornate Victorian headstones jutted from the earth, their once-crisp inscriptions eroded by the relentless touch of time, some markers leaning precariously, bowed under the weight of decades, their surfaces cloaked in moss and lichen.

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