Page 163 of The Thief
Outside, I can hear voices, vehicles, the sound of people dealing with death and its aftermath. Denis coordinating with the undertaker. Malcolm and Danny securing the house. The business of cleaning up after violence, of making the dead disappear with dignity.
"Stay with me," I say.
"Always."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
But promises are fragile things in our world. Henry promised to keep me safe, and now he's dead. Dad promised to come home, and he never did. Words are just words when bullets start flying.
Still, Freddie's arms around me feel solid, real. His heartbeat against my ear is steady, reassuring. If this is all we have—these moments of peace between storms—then I'll take them.
Tomorrow, there'll be a funeral to plan, enemies to hunt, a war to finish. But tonight, I grieve for the grandfather I barely had time to know, and love the man who holds me while I fall apart.
"He said he loved me," I tell Freddie. "Right before he died. He said he loved me and thanked me for coming home."
"Of course he did. You were his pride and joy."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I saw the way he looked at you. The way his whole face lit up when you walked into a room. You gave him something he'd been missing—a piece of Killian to love and protect."
The tears come harder now, ugly sobs that shake my whole body. Grief for Henry, for Dad, for Murphy, for everyone this war has taken. Freddie holds me through all of it, his hand stroking my hair, his voice murmuring comfort I can't quite make out.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. My body stops shaking, my breathing evens out, and the tears slow to a trickle. I'm drained, empty, hollowed out by loss.
"Sleep," Freddie murmurs. "I'll be right here."
"Don't leave."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I close my eyes and let myself drift toward unconsciousness. But even in sleep, I can smell Henry's blood on my hands, hear the sound of steel piercing flesh, see Trace's mad eyes promising more violence to come.
This isn't over. It won't be over until Trace Harrington is dead and buried, until everyone responsible for Henry's death has paid the price.
But tonight, I'm alive. Freddie's alive. And sometimes, in our world, that's victory enough.
Tomorrow, we start planning our revenge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
freddie
Leaving Tríona alone in that bed is the hardest thing I've ever done.
She's finally asleep, exhausted by grief and shock, curled up like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. Every instinct I have screams at me to stay with her, to keep watch, to make sure nothing else can hurt her tonight.
But Trace Harrington is still breathing. And as long as he's alive, none of us are safe.
I kiss her forehead gently, careful not to wake her, then slip out of the room. The hallway is quiet except for the sound of voices drifting up from downstairs. Denis coordinating with the undertaker, Malcolm talking to additional security; the business of dealing with death.
Henry's body is gone by the time I reach the entrance hall. The blood's been cleaned up, the Persian rug removed. Like the murder never happened, except for the hole it's torn in all our lives.
"Where is he?" I ask Denis.
"Warehouse. Same place we took Marcus."
