Chapter 2 - The Edge of the Blade
The grandfather clock in the main hall of the manor chimed 2:00 AM.
Rowan sat on the edge of the clawfoot tub in the small bathroom adjoining her room over the carriage house. She had the taps running cold to drown out any noise. The bare incandescent bulb overhead buzzed like an angry hornet.
She reached for the hem of her black undershirt, caught her breath, and peeled it upward.
The fabric peeled away from her skin with a sickening, wet tearing sound.
Rowan gasped, her forehead slamming against the cold porcelain of the sink. Black spots swarmed her vision. She waited, panting, count of four in, count of four out, until the world stopped spinning.
The wound was ugly. The entry point, just below her left collarbone, was surrounded by a halo of purple and angry crimson rot. The exit wound near her shoulder blade was worse—the monofilament had torn through the inflamed flesh during her session with Midnight Reel that morning, and a sluggish stream of dark blood was tracing a path down her ribs.
"Stupid," she whispered to her reflection. "Reckless."
She reached into her battered canvas bag, pulling out a bottle of cheap veterinary Betadine, gauze, and a surgical scalpel. Her hands were steady, but the skin around her mouth was white as chalk.
If she went to a hospital in Limerick or Cork, the alert would flash across the national database within fifteen minutes. And Viktor Vance’s men didn't just watch Dublin; they owned the private security networks running out of Shannon Airport. One bullet wound reported by an ER nurse, and the cleanup crew would be at her bedside before the saline drip was empty.
She soaked a cotton pad in Betadine and pressed it directly against the raw hole.
Her knees buckled. She dropped to the linoleum floor, her back against the tub, clutching her shoulder as a soundless scream ripped through her throat. Tears leaked from the corners of her tightly shut eyes, hot and humiliating.
*Keep moving,* her father’s voice echoed from a decade ago, from a life that had burned to ashes. *A wounded dog lies down and dies. A wolf keeps running until the snow washes the track clean.*
A heavy knock rattled the wooden door of her quarters.
Rowan froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Rowan." Declan’s voice, muffled by thick oak, carried through the quiet room. "The generator in the east barn tripped. The heating fans are down for Midnight Reel’s stall."
She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the agony tearing through her torso. She snatched a clean dark sweater—navy blue, thick knit, wool that wouldn't show dampness—and pulled it frantically over her head. The coarse wool scraped the exposed wound, blinding her with a fresh wave of nausea.
She threw her hair forward to cover her neck, shoved the bloody bandages into the bottom of her laundry hamper, and kicked the bathroom door half-shut.
"Coming," she called, her voice steady, forged from iron discipline.
She opened the carriage house door.
Declan stood on the threshold, framed by the dark, wind-whipped rain outside. He wore a waterproof wax jacket, his hair plastered to his forehead by the storm. In his right hand, he held a heavy brass flashlight; his left hand rested casually inside his coat pocket, right where a man who carried a concealed Sig Sauer would keep his fingers curled around the grip.
His eyes scanned her instantly. From the damp tendrils of hair at her temples down to the slight, unnatural stiffness in the way she held her left shoulder.
"You took your time," he said.
"I was asleep."
Declan’s gaze dropped to the floor behind her, lingering on a single drop of dark fluid that had dripped from her fingertip onto the pale timber floorboards.
He didn't mention it.
May you like
"The stallion is kicking the partition," he said, turning back toward the rain. "If he shatters the timber, he’ll ruin the tendon for good. Grab your coat."
***
