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“Hey,” I whispered, running my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
As he shuddered in my arms, I felt both his terror and his relief pouring off of him in torrents. If his protection was my freedom, then my presence was his. He could express himself with me. Be himself around me. Bury his pain inside me.
And I would take it, greedily.
Lifting his face until he was looking at me again, I slid my thumbs under his wet lower lashes before pressing a kiss to his beautiful, miserable mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming. My feelings, my need, my fear of trusting someone this much, my fear of losing someone again—it spilled down my cheeks and salted my lips, the perfect contrast to the sweetness I’d found in this man.
The night before, he’d told me to take what I wanted from him, and what I wanted was this. Every raw, unspoken, terrible thing that lurked inside of him. I wanted to free him of that darkness, catch it on my tongue, and swallow it whole.
When Damien dropped his forehead back down to my heart and I ran my fingers through his hair, I finally remembered what I was going to say before.
“I love you,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Angel …” Damien rasped, coiling his arms around my waist. “The way I feel about you”—he shook his head—“there isn’t a word for it.”
I smiled, knowing that nothing would ever fill me with more joy than hearing Damien Hughes tell me he loved me.
But what I heard next was a close second.
“This train is approaching Castlebridge Station,” a digital voice announced over the speakers. “Transfer here for northbound service to Dublin or continue for westbound service to Waterford, Cork, and Glenshire.”
CHAPTER 29
DAMIEN
“Damien, wake up. We’re here.”
I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until I heard Clo’s soft voice. I’d been dreaming about us riding the train like a normal couple, holding hands across the table and smiling about nothing as the southern hills rolled by outside. But we were still very much under the table—running for our lives and hiding from Russian militants—and I’d slept through the entire trip.
I knew I was exhausted. I’d been in survival mode for two straight days and been up all night, exerting myself—first in the bedroom with Clo and then in the bowels of her da’s ship as I sawed through layers of wood and waterproofing—but I still couldn’t believe that I’d let my guard down enough to sleep in a public place. It was dangerous, the effect Clover had on me. The few times she’d let me hold her, touch her, everything else had just faded away. It made no sense. We were in constant danger, but the weight of her body on my chest and the warmth of her breath on my neck tricked me into thinking that nothing bad could possibly happen.
Crawling backward out of our hiding spot, Clover seemed entirely too happy for a girl who’d just spent another day fearing for her life and watching men get slaughtered right before her eyes. She beamed as she helped me unfold my massive body into a standing position. Then, she reached for the heavy bag Kate had sent us with, as if I was going to let her carry it. Plucking it out of her hands, I slung it over my shoulder and pulled her against my good side. There were a few other people on the train now, all of whom gave us sideways glances as they gathered in the aisle, waiting to exit. It could have been because we’d crawled out from under a table, or because there was a gun holstered on my hip, or because Clo was wearing a bloodstained Russian Naval blazer over her sundress.
Or maybe it was because she was the first smiling person they’d seen since the invasion.
“Arriving at … Glenshire Station. This is the final stop for westbound service. Transfer here for northbound service to Killarney, Limerick, and Galway.”
Clo let out a little squeal as she clutched my hand and bounced in place. “I’ve always wanted to come here. That book I read to you in the cave … that entire series is about the folklore of Glenshire. My ma named me after a line from a poem in one of those books.”
Clearing her throat, she recited, “Out where the bluebells grow high as your knee, and the clover and moss blanket every tree, lies a ring made of stone where no fairies dare tread. That’s where you’ll find him, the ghost of the glen.”
“The ghost of the glen?” I asked, scanning the platform for soldiers as I forced myself to loosen my grip on Clo’s arm.
“The ghost of Glenshire,” she replied matter-of-factly. “When he was a boy, the villagers thought he was the son of Satan and shunned him. He hid out in the forest, which, legend has it, is inhabited by fairies and witches and a lake spirit named Saoirse.”
“Mmhmm.” I was only half-listening.
There were no soldiers. No guards. Just a few dozen traumatized-looking passengers heading up the stairs to the northbound platform, loaded down with suitcases, packs, pets, and children. Where were they going? What did they know that we didn’t?
Following the signs for Glenshire instead, Clover tugged me through the turnstiles and into a stone tunnel. A few handwritten posters taped to the walls announced that food and shelter were available to refugees at Glenshire Catholic Church.
“… so when the priest died in a house fire and the boy disappeared, everyone assumed that he’d died in the fire too. That was when the ghost of Glenshire legend was born. They thought his spirit was haunting the woods, waiting for the American girl he loved to return. Isn’t that sad?”
I remembered the story. I fucking hated it.
“But the legend was disproved years later when Darby came back to Glenshire as an adult for her grandfather’s funeral. She found Kellen alive and well, married him, and they lived quite happily in her grandfather’s farmhouse … until they were murdered, of course.”
