Page 164 of Twisting Beauty

“Father’s looking for us, Gray. Wants us both.” His words were clipped.

Deargán’s lips curled faintly. “Strange. I thought Lasair Senior was away until tomorrow.”

“He’s back early.” Lorcan’s voice snapped. “But so thoughtful of you to keep track of his comings and goings.”

Their glares locked over my head.

“Tell your father,” Deargán said, his eyes still on Lorcan, “I look forward to facing him again.”

Lorcan’s eyes glittered. “I think he’ll look forward to putting you away again. So will I.”

The noose tightened between the three of us, every word, every touch, every look pulling it harder.

Lorcan at my side, burning and claiming.

Deargán in front of me, watching, waiting, calculating.

Neither of them was stepping away.

Neither of them was letting me go.

And it would soon tear me apart.

Half hiding my face in my scarf, I sat on the third row of the Ravenwood bleachers, the cold of the metal bench biting up through my jeans. I wanted nothing more than to hide away in the warmth, away from the constant stares, but I’d promised Lorcan I’d come.

Beside me, Nuala unwrapped a Cadbury Snack. She passed me half with a pointed side glance. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Mm.”

“Because you didn’t answer me when I asked what position Lorcan was playing.”

Shite.

“Sorry. Distracted,” I said with a forced laugh. “Fullback.”

She studied me, the question building behind her teeth.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the field. “He’s about to score.”

It worked. Her head turned.

The pitch stretched out below us, churned-up grass and chalk lines and a thin morning fog still clinging at the corners. The air smelled of wet earth and damp wool and the burned coffee drifting up from the cart at the far end. Somewhere a whistle went and a body hit a body and the home crowd around us groaned.

God, Lorcan was beautiful when he was moving. Every long stride landing where it needed to, his feet nimble as he danced around his opponents, the sliotar obedient against his stick. He cut around a defender without slowing. He shouldered another off the line with a casual brutality the ref didn’t bother to call. You’d never know he was playing with horrific injuries still healing across his back.

A whistle blew. Lorcan slammed his shoulder into someone and the man went down. My breath caught against the toxic rush of need.

My chest was tight with pride and want, snarled together for the boy on the field and the boy who had pinned me to a wall and said fuck, I missed you into my mouth like the hour apart had been a wound.

The skin at the back of my neck started to prickle.

Shite. I was being watched.

Deargán was on the touchline in his dark coat, hands in his pockets, staring at me.

My stupid stomach flipped.

He started up the bleacher steps, a few of the mothers on the lower rows nudging each other and turning to track him as he passed.