Cillian
I make the driver take the long way through the city. Kian’s not happy about it, but he indulges me. I stare out the window and drink up the sights I’ve missed down to my bones.
It’s like I can’t get enough of it. I’m drinking sensations of home through a firehouse and still I want more, more, more.
Soon enough, though, the city peters out. Offices turn into homes, and homes turn into private estates. We wind deeper into the outskirts, leaving Dublin proper behind…
Until the Manor rears up through the windshield.
When we get to the gates of the property, I sit up a little straighter and push down my nerves.
At first glance, everything looks exactly the same.
Granite exteriors, private driveway to the main entrance of the rotunda, loads of floor-to-ceiling French doors that spill out directly into the gardens surrounding the building.
But I do spot differences. They’re small, but enough to remind me that this is no longer my home.
It’s changed in my absence.
So have I.
The moment the car stops, Kian and I get out through the opposite doors. I start to go straight for the main entrance, but then I stop short and wait for Kian to do the honors.
The doors creak open. As huge and heavy as they’ve always been. I step onto the solid oak boards of the entryway and take a deep breath.
“Welcome back, Master Cillian.”
Fuck.
That voice.
I turn to find Quinn standing in the arched canopy entrance that leads to the kitchen. He’s dressed in the exact same butler’s blacks that he was wearing the last time I saw him more than a decade ago.
He looks the same, too. Maybe a little greyer around the temples. A few more lines around the eyes.
But otherwise, ageless.
It creeps me the fuck out.
“Well fuck me, if it isn’t Quinn O’Keefe!” I say, moving forward and grabbing his hand even though he hasn’t offered it to me. “Forget Da, Kian. We’ve got our fucking vampire right here. You haven’t aged a day.”
“I respectfully disagree, sir,” Quinn murmurs with a wry smile.
I slap him on the back and for a moment, I think he’s going to break rather than allow himself to bend. “It’s good to see you, old man.”
Quinn gives me a stiff smile that very nearly touches his eyes. It’s the most warmth I’ve ever seen from him. “And you, sir.”
“Missed me?”
“Desperately,” he drawls.
“You cupcake!” I laugh. “Look at you. You’re practically crying. I always knew you were a sentimental old goat.”
“Such flattery.” His tone is desert dry, but it only makes me laugh all the harder.
I smirk. “You wanna give me a tour of the place? We can start in the wine—”
“Cillian.”