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His eyes sweep over my brother and then land on me."Is she hurt?"he asks, taking in the blood streaked across my face and arms.

I don’t answer.I’m not sure I could if I tried.

"She’s not injured," Eamon answers for me, his arm tightening protectively around my waist."The blood’s not hers."

Dr.Kearney nods once."My things are set up in the guest room.I’ll start with him."He gestures for the guards to bring Ruairi through the hall.Bridget follows them wordlessly, her hand never leaving her husband’s back.

The second we’re alone, Eamon turns to me, his expression softening."Let me take care of you."

I nod.

He doesn’t say anything else as he laces his fingers through mine and leads me down the hall to our room.Once we’re inside, he closes the door and turns to me.His gaze darkens, skimming over my ruined clothes, over the dried blood, the grime.The evidence of everything that happened tonight.

I feel it, heavy on my skin.It clings and suffocates me.But I don’t react.I don’t know how.

Eamon moves with care.His hands find the hem of my shirt, but he doesn’t rush.He undresses me gently, his fingers unhurried, as if he’s peeling away layers of something fragile.

The fabric is stiff with blood as he pulls it over my head.It lands on the floor with a quiet thud, but the sound feels deafening.His fingers skim down my arms, dragging away the remnants of tonight.My pants follow, sliding down my legs, pooling at my feet.

I stand there, bare, cold despite the warmth of the penthouse, despite Eamon’s hands on me.

His brows pull together, concern flashing across his face.He cups my cheek, his thumb dragging over my jaw.“Aoife.”

I blink but don’t answer.I can’t.Something inside me has gone still—too still.

Eamon exhales sharply as if he was hoping for some kind of response.

When he steps back, his hands go to his own clothes.The soft rustle of fabric fills the heavy silence between us, but I barely hear it.Everything feels muted like I’m underwater.

His shirt drops to the floor first, followed by his belt and pants.I don’t even register the way he watches me as he strips, steady and unblinking.I can barely see him through the haze choking my vision.

Then he’s there, solid and real, his arms wrapping around me without a word.He lifts me easily like I weigh nothing.Like my broken pieces aren’t a burden he’s afraid to carry.

The bathroom light cuts through the darkness, too bright, too clean.It feels wrong, like shining a light on a corpse.The water hisses from the faucet, roaring in my ears.

Eamon steps into the shower with me, still holding me close.

The first blast of heat scalds my skin, but I don't care.Pain is something.It means I'm still here.

Red stains the water the moment it touches me.It streaks down my arms in thick rivulets, smears against my legs, and pools at my feet.I stand there, watching it swirl down the drain, endless and slow, like no matter how much washes away, more will keep coming.

The coppery stench clings to me—thick, nauseating.It seeps into my hair, my nails, my skin.Into my bones.Into whatever's left of me.

And then it hits me, sharp and brutal.It isn’t just Ronan’s blood slipping from my body.

It’s everything.

Cian’s betrayal.Ruairi’s war.

Every lie.Every wound.

The last pieces of who I was.

The girl who thought she could survive this and come out clean.

The girl who believed survival meant something.

She’s gone.