Page 44 of The Irish Redemption

“Or the right one.”

Soap rinsed, I carry Evelyn back to the bed and tuck her in as gently as I can. She gingerly adjusts herself under the sheets, mindful of the bandages around her torso, and then she settles down to rest. Which lasts all of five minutes before she’s tugging at the covers and trying to bury herself beneath the sheets.

“Do you need anything?” I ask, fighting the wave of worry that fluctuates every time she moves. I don’t want her ripping her stitches, but her restlessness is clearly worrying.

“I’m cold,” Evelyn says, suddenly sitting up. “Can you cuddle me?”

The request makes my heart unexpectedly skip a beat. Helping her to the bathroom is one thing. That’s a necessity. But hearing her ask for me to be close to her is another thing entirely, especially when I’m fully expecting her to want nothing to do with me as soon as those painkillers wear off.

“Are you sure?”

Evelyn nods and lightly bites her lower lip. “I can’t curl up for warmth because of this.” She presses one hand to her chest. “So can you help me?”

I don’t need to be asked twice. Shifting out of my seat, I ease onto the bed and take up most of the room considering my bulk, but Evelyn doesn’t appear to care. She immediately latches onto my chest and when I tuck my arm around her shoulders, she cuddles into me with the softest, most contented sound I have ever heard in my life.

Having her against me sends my thoughts running. There’s a mix of anger and guilt at myself for letting her get hurt and not protecting her better when I was the one who put her in danger. Then there’s a flurry of anxiety and a strange hyper-awareness of my body and where I’m touching her. I can feel her entire body against my own and every little shiver that runs through her sends a jolt of excitement through me.

I can’t even try to explain away my feelings anymore, and it doesn’t matter if they will never be reciprocated. I like her. A lot.

And no one will ever hurt her again.

“What does this mean?” Evelyn’s cool fingertips suddenly brush against my neck, right over a black tattoo.

“It’s a tattoo.”

Her fingers become claws and she prods my shoulder. “Asshole. What does it mean?”

The tattoo is three interlocking triangles connected in a way that creates a single triangle with each outer edge. Her touch is gentle, yet focusing on that tattoo drags my heart into my gut.

“It’s… each triangle is one of my siblings. There’s one for Saoirse, one for Cian, and one for… Brenden. And then together, they make up my family.”

“Oh.” Her voice is soft. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It just means more now than it did when I got it done. It’s all locked together because, as a unit, we’re unshakeable. Or we were.” I breathe deeply, staring up at the white tiles above.

“It’s beautiful. Just like the flowers on your arm.”

“Ah, now those are because of my home. Ireland and my actual home.”

“Your apartment?”

“Nah, my real home.” I tilt my head down to see Evelyn’s eyelids drooping. “I’ll show you sometime. After you sleep.”

“Not tired,” Evelyn replies stubbornly.

Within two minutes, she’s fast asleep in the crook of my arm and the machines around me beep to the rhythm of her peaceful rest. I return my gaze to the ceiling and allow my mind to run.

Maybe taking Evelyn home would be a good idea.

It’s unclear how long we stay like this, but as the world darkens outside the window, the door soon opens and Saoirse walks in. She doesn’t bat an eye to see Evelyn and me cuddled together. Approaching the bed, she hands me a letter.

An invitation.

The Russian Godmother is requesting a meeting on neutral ground.

18

EVELYN

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