Page 55 of Wild Irish

Cillian

Emer and Shanestand up when I walk into the hospital room, but I barely see them. The only thing I can focus on is my brother’s hulking frame in the small bed, wires and tubes everywhere.

All the air rushes out of my lungs, and my already mangled heart is shredded.

I manage to swallow past the lump in my throat, and grit out the words, “How is he?”

Shane leans against the wall, arms crossed, his body radiating with tension. When I glance over at him, I can see the blame in his eyes, like this is somehow my fault.

Emer moves towards me and places her hand on my arm. “They have him in a medically-induced coma until the swelling in his brain goes down.”

“Jaysus.” I rake my hands through my hair, gutted. “What the hell happened? Aiden said he was fighting–”

“Of course he would sugarcoat it.” Shane sneers, pushing off the wall, all his anger directed at me. “Ye have everyone walking around on bleedin’ eggshells.”

“Shane,” Emer warns.

“No. Let him talk. Ye have something to say, say it,” I growl out.

“Why?” Shane gets in my face. Nostrils flare, lips curl in a sneer, and I can tell he’d have no issue with hitting me right now. “It doesn’t matter what anyone says, ye’ll believe whatever the hell ye want to. Even if it means destroying everyone around ye.”

“Ye’re going to blame me for this, too? Fuck you,” I bite out, taking a step towards him, daring him to hit me. Anything would feel better than the emptiness eating away at my chest.

He snorts in disgust, then nudges my shoulder with his own as he storms out.

Emer exhales heavily and shakes her head once her brother is gone. Her gaze is on me, and I see the judgment there.

“Spit it out.” I sit down in the chair beside the bed and place my face in my palms.

“What?”

“Whatever it is ye’re tryingnotto say.”

“Ye may just be the most stubborn man I’ve ever met, ye know that?”

I grunt, leaning on my elbows. “Tell me what happened.”

She moves to the other side of the bed and places the back of her hand on my brother’s forehead. “Molly.”

One word, it’s enough to make every muscle in my body tense.

“What about her?”

“She came into the pub. Owen had been drinking. A lot.”

“Owen doesn’t drink.”

“He does now.”

I glance up and see the accusation in her eyes. “Don’t blame this on me. If he fought over that bitch, it’s his problem.”

“He wasn’t fighting over her. He was fighting over ye.”

I narrow my eyes. “Me?”

“I know ye won’t believe me, but it’s the truth.”

“Tell me,” I say through clenched teeth.

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