“Jesus, son,” the sharp-nosed man hisses at Cillian. “This was not part of the fucking plan.”
Cillian whips a harsh glare at him. So cold that even I recoil a little bit.
“I’m no one’s son anymore, Darragh,” he rasps.
The tension is razor-sharp.
The man hesitates, then nods and swallows. “No,” he admits softly. “I suppose you’re not.”
Cillian regards the man icily for a moment longer.
Then he breaks into his trademark wry grin.
“Besides,” he adds, “I’ve always liked to wing it. Why don’t you get out of here? I can handle this.”
The man—Darragh, he called him—doesn’t look happy about that.
“This is my problem,” Cillian adds. “Not yours.”
His problem?
What does that mean?
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Darragh sighs before walking out of the long room.
Cillian seems completely unfazed to be alone. And in a police station, no less.
“Hey, he’s right,” I say. “It’s not worth it.”
I’m thinking of Tristan and an army of men in blue pouring in here to beat Cillian to death right in front of me.
The thought alone makes me quake with fear.
He turns his blue gaze on me. “Of course it’s worth it,” he replies with such conviction that it reminds me of what he told me a lifetime ago.
I don’t lie.
And as far as I can tell, he never has.
But that’s not true, is it?
Because everyone lies.
And now that he’s standing before me, I sense that my idealized version of him is in danger of shrinking away, dissolving into nothingness and leaving me bare.
It fucking terrifies me.
The sergeant finally manages to get the cell unlocked.
The moment my door swings open, Cillian seizes my arm and pulls me out. Then he pushes the sergeant inside the cell.
The man fumbles forward and nearly collides with the wall. He doubles back, his face pink with rage, but Cillian’s fist flies out suddenly.
CRACK.
The cop instantly slumps into the corner, his eyes rolling back in his head before they close completely.
“Oh my God!” I gasp. “He’s out cold.”