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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

ELENA

Conor moved into our apartment a couple of days ago when he was well enough to finally be moved from the club. We all figured this was best so that Vic and I can look after him while he recovers. He might be here—and alive—but it all feels surreal. Something between all of us isn’t the same. It hasn’t been since that night, and I can’t quite figure out what it is.

Conor’s laugh echoes through the apartment—real, genuine, and hearty. I seek out the source of it, and I find him stretched on the couch in the living room with his feet resting over Victoria’s thighs. From the hallway, I secretly watch the two of them for a moment. They are so comfortable together, in a way that causes my heart to ache—both with happiness and jealousy.

Victoria is back to her old self. Poised, controlled, and ever-present… And happy. After watching her fall apart for days, I know I should be delighted for her. I should be… But all I can think about is how I have somehow lost my connection to both of them. I’m here, but I feel like a shadow. For the first time since we brought Conor into our lives, it feels like a threesome—and I’m the third wheel.

Conor catches me watching them, his eyes locking onto mine as he gives me a cocky half-smile. And for a moment, we’re the only two people in the room. A short fleeting moment. He slides his feet from Victoria’s lap and pushes himself from the pillows he’s resting on with a grimace. She reaches forward to help him—the role she’s assumed since he woke up—but he shakes his head and pushes her hands away. “I’m good,” he mutters, gingerly rising from the couch. “I need a shower before bed.”

Vic opens her mouth—likely to volunteer her assistance—but before she has a chance, Conor focuses on me and asks, “Can you help me, cailín leanbh ?”

“Uh…um…yeah,” I stammer, caught off guard. His bright blue eyes—full of vibrance and life again—don’t leave mine as he crosses the room slowly, lightly holding his side to ease the pain with every heavy step he takes.

I struggle to maintain his gaze as he reaches me. Pausing briefly next to me, he towers over me and whispers, “Thank you, cailín leanbh .” I follow him toward the room the three of us are sharing. I can’t even call it our room right now. He pads into the attached bathroom while I gather clean dressings from the overly-organized container that Vic is storing them in at the foot of the bed. Hearing the water turn on, I take my time finding the extra-large gauge and medical tape. I struggle to hold it in my arms while digging through the dresser for fresh boxers and sweatpants for him—figuring he needs a few more minutes to finish showering before he’s ready for me. The privacy same I would for any patient.

Stepping into the threshold of the doorway, I stop in my tracks and a near-silent gasp blows over my lips. Conor is naked, his head hanging toward the bandages and his palms on the counter, naturally flexing every muscle in his thick arms. The position is doing the same for his well-defined back. And it definitely it isn’t hurting his tight backside, either.

Not noticing my entry, he stares deeply into his reflection as he works to pull the bandages from his chest and side. His brows furrow, and he clenches his jaw from the discomfort. Peeling the soiled gauze away, he reveals the still-fresh wounds. Jesus… How did he survive this? My hands trembling slightly, I move toward him, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror. From the way he looks at me—with a longing intensity—I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet.

He turns to face me, and my breath catches in my throat as my eyes fall to his wounds. “God… Conor…” My heart suddenly aches over how close we truly came to losing him.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he grabs my hand. He pulls it toward him and gingerly presses it to the wounds from the bullets he took. My fingers shake, and I can’t help but be acutely aware of every breath he takes. How his body stiffens as he glides my fingertips over the red, raised tissue. “I’m still here, cailín leanbh .”

I bite my lip, trying desperately to hold it together.

“I’m still here,” he repeats, sliding my hand over the steady thump of his heart. He dips his head and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft and hesitant as we reacquaint ourselves with each other. All my doubts and hesitations disappear, and for the first time in days, I remember what we feel like.

Conor’s strong hands find my waist, pulling me into his as our kiss deepens. His tongue plunders my mouth, desperate and urgent. Frantic. He dips his hands beneath my shirt, slowly dragging it up my body as his hands roughly slide up my spine. The shirt pulling over my head forces us to break our kiss, and I breathlessly mutter, “You’re still here.”

Haphazardly dropping my shirt to the floor, his eyes don’t leave mine as he undoes the bow of my baggy sweatpants, and they drop to the floor. “Still here.” His words vibrate against my lips as he leads me backward toward the shower.