Page 26 of Dublin Beast

But it never changed the reality.

She’s dead.

I keep my feet moving, my pulse thundering in my ears, drowning out the cruelty of being the one left behind. People talk about the grief and the loss, but it’s the helplessness and guilt that hold me in its grip.

She’s dead.

Even four years later, I still can’t wrap my head around how I let that happen. I’m a fucking Quinn. My family has power and money and decides who dies in our city—so how could she die?

How could I not save her?

A cold gust of wind slaps me in the face and I realize I’m outside. Rain beats down on me and icy drops tunnel down the collar of my jacket to chill my skin.

I tilt my head back and scowl at the gray sky above. “Fuck you, too.”

Still, the cold shower is a good thing. It snaps me out of the fiery fury that ignited a moment ago and I rein my emotions back.

Yasmine is dead. Harper saw her picture and asked about her. There was nothing malicious about it and nothing has changed.

My love is gone.

The priest who spoke at her funeral said those who love her should rejoice that she is at peace and in a better place.Bullshit.

I’ve never been a spiritual man, but Yasmine belonged with us. There was no‘better place’for her. She would’ve given anything to stay here with her parents and me even if life had given her the choice.

I pull a deep breath through lead lungs and let the ever-present guilt wash over me. Yasmine’s parents—Ashwin and Riya—were so good to me.

They loved me as their own and I’ve been such a selfish bastard since Yasmine’s death, I haven’t honored that love. Yas wanted me to lean on them and heal.

Instead, I begged Da to involve me more in the family business and focused on MMA training, learning better ways to beat men bloody.

The shame I feel about that overwhelms me at times.

Yasmine wouldn’t recognize me as the boy who loved her. Which, I suppose is fair…because I’m not that man anymore.

That Bryan Quinn died the night her heart stopped beating.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Harper

It’s nearly nine o’clock that same night when I step out of the hotel bar with Anton, the last traces of whiskey still warming my throat. The meal was forgettable, but it did the job—fuel for another long night of research.

Anton walks beside me, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his mind elsewhere. It’s always elsewhere.

I don’t blame him. His sister is missing, and his family needs him to come home. He’s torn.

“Tomorrow’s a new day. We’ll keep trying,” I say, reassuring him.

His jaw flexes, but he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

He stops at the elevator, pressing the button as I spot movement further down the hall.

Bryan has just come out of another elevator bank and stomps off in the other direction, heading toward the gym. He’s wearing gray sweats and a tight black T-shirt that clings to his body like a second skin. His head is down, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

And he lookspissed.

I watch the way his muscles coil beneath the fabric, his broad shoulders taut with barely contained aggression. Is this because I brought up is dead love?

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