Page 22

“Today’s the day.”

The carpet swallows the scuff of my boots as I get to my feet and cross to the window.

Outside, two Kinnane men in black coats stand near the fountain, heads bowed against the weather. Past them, the drive curves toward the iron gates, and every inch of it is watched by surveillance cameras.

Behind me, the door opens and Mara Kinnane enters first, dressed in dove gray with pearls at her throat. Art fills the doorway in a navy suit, silver hair combed back, eyes hard enough to cut meat.

Father Cormac follows, white collar stark against his saggy jowls, the smell of incense clinging to him as if he has brought the chapel with him.

Eilish rises out of trained ceremony.

I stay by the window until Art’s gaze finds me.

“Sera,” he says, civil enough to be insulting. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“I can leave,” I suggest, even though Eilish glares at me.

“We’re going out soon,” she lies. “There’s no point leaving now, Sera.”

“You won’t be going anywhere today.” Art gives me the same look men give dogs when they want them to behave. “This is a family matter. I’ve no doubt you won’t want to be here when our guest arrives.”

“Sera stays,” Eilish says.

Mara crosses to her daughter and smooths a hand over Eilish’s hair. “Darling, this will be easier if you’re not difficult.”

I look over at Eilish, who catches my eye and nods. “She’s my best friend, Mother. If you’re about to tell me something important, I want her to hear it too.”

Art walks to the fireplace and turns to face us, positioning himself beneath a portrait of some dead Kinnane patriarch.

“An arrangement has been made,” he says.

Eilish’s fingers curl once at her side. “You mean a marriage arrangement?”

“Yes, my darling,” Mara confirms.

Father Cormac lowers his eyes while Art keeps his attention on Eilish because men like him prefer to watch the wound open while they’re cutting.

“Who agreed?” she asks.

Art’s mouth twitches. “Fionn Harrington.”

For a racing heartbeat, I’m back in the dark field with that bastard on top of me. With his face so close, I stupidly thought about kissing him. Before I know it, my fingers skim my lips.

I snap myself out of it and focus on Eilish, whose expression is blank. Her mouth stays closed, trapping all the things I know she wants to say but can’t because Art Kinnane doesn't take no for an answer.

Her fingers uncurl slowly at her side, one by one, as if she has to teach her hand not to reach for anything.

Anyone else might call it composure. I know better.

“No,” I say.

Art’s face hardens. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” I repeat, because apparently my survival instinct has taken the morning off. “He’s not the right man for her.”

“Sera,” Eilish mutters.

She’s not telling me to stop because she disagrees. Rather, she knows that arguing with her father is a waste of time.