He grips my hand in his frail grasp. “I don’t want my daughter caught in the crossfire.”
I’m glad that Padraig has decided to be a father after so long turning his head the other way. But his words spark another bout of anger.
“If you didn’t want that, then you shouldn’t have put her in the fucking crossfire to begin with,” I snap.
“I thought he’d protect her!” he wails.
I look at him without a shred sympathy. “And maybe he would have, if she’d kept her head down and done his bidding like a fucking trained dog. If she’d allowed him to control her, maybe she’d have avoided a few beatings, a few bruises. But we both know Saoirse is not the type of women to take a beating lying down. She’s a fighter.”
His eyes drop guiltily. “I know that.”
“And you handed her over to a man who was determined to break that fight,” I snarl, getting to my feet. “You have no moral high ground here. I suggest you sit back and let me protect your daughter.”
“How do I know you will?” he asks.
I almost laugh in his face. It’s a bold question from a man in no position to be asking such things.
Apparently, he has bigger balls than I thought.
“I did once before,” I remind him. “It cost me everything.”
Padraig nods, processing what that means.
Then his expression turns curious. “What did happen between you and Saoirse?” he asks carefully.
That question takes me by surprise, too.
So many fucking ways to explain that.
In the end, all I say is, “It’s complicated.”
But what I’m really thinking is…
Fuck if I know.