Page 155 of Killaney Fire

"That your silence is louder than your rage and that you need to face this head-on. This isn't my call. For what it's worth, it seems the deeper Octavian got, the more unpredictable he became. He broke protocol. Nicolae's furious. Says Octavian went rogue."

I shake my head. "I just don't understand. Why didn't he tell me? Why not warn me?"

"I don't know. Maybe he thought he could control the damage. Maybe he didn't want to lose you."

"Lose me? Well," I hesitate, "too late for that."

"All you have to do is tell me which way to go, and I'll go. You wanted to be an equal. You felt like you didn't have a voice or a choice when we brought Octavian on. Well, now I'm giving it to you."

My voice breaks slightly. "I don't know, Callum. He fucking—" I stop, looking down at the bandage on my arm.

Callum's voice softens. "I know, Keira, but death is final, and I need you to be 100% sure it's what you want for him. Because you'll carry that forever. And if you're unsure, it'll eat you alive."

I look up at him, seeing him in a new light. "Dad always said you were the one to lead us. I see it now, Cal. Once all this is behind us, you're going to do great things for this family."

A small, sad smile touches his lips. "Thanks, Keira."

After a pause, I ask, "What would you do? If it were you?"

He meets my eyes. "It doesn't matter what I'd do, but you'll know soon enough. Come on."

Callum opens the door for me and we walk in silence. My hands shake and every step feels heavier than the last.

I don't know what I'm going to say, or what I want to hear.

I just know I have to see him one more time and find out why he did this to me.

Callum stops outside the basement door. "I'll wait here. When you've gotten your answer, come out."

I nod, not looking at him.

"Keira."

I turn.

"Do what's best for you. The family will figure it out."

I nod again and walk inside.

I don't knock. If he's going to die tonight, he can look me in the eye first.

41

KEIRA

The door shuts behind me, sealing us in.

I don't speak. I just stand there, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

And then I see him.

Octavian's head hangs forward, dark hair falling over his face. His arms are zip-tied behind the chair, shoulders slumped. Blood stains the edge of his shirt where his wounds haven't been tended. His suit jacket is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the tattoos, the ink smeared with grime and sweat.

There's a slow, pulsing bruise on the side of his jaw, and when he finally lifts his head, our eyes meet.

He looks broken.

No, he looks ruined, or maybe I want him to look ruined.