Page 70 of Irish Daddies
I sit beside Kellan’s bed and wrap my fingers around the cold metal rail like it might anchor me to the now. He’s asleep. Or pretending. His face is slack, mouth slightly open, lashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. The monitors beside him beep with unnerving calm. That sound should be comforting. Instead, it makes my skin itch.
His torso is wrapped in thick gauze. Layers and layers of it. The bandages are clean now, the bloody ones replaced after he was stitched up, but I can still see where the white has turned faintly pink along the edges. I watched them do it. Watched strangers tape him back together like a broken doll while I stood beside his unconscious body and tried not to throw up.
It didn’t work. I did anyway.
There’s still blood on my dress. It’s dried stiff across my front, pressed into the fabric like he meant to leave a mark. I haven’t changed. It feels wrong to do anything but grieve and worry.
I think Rian drove us here. Or maybe Declan. The ride was fast and loud and too quiet all at once. Panic, then stillness. I remember pressing my hand to Kellan’s wound so tightly I couldn’t feel my own fingers. I remember his blood soaking my thighs. I remember screaming his name like it might keep his heart beating. Everything else is a blur.
The beeping is steady now. Not frantic. Not flat. Just the rhythmic, mechanical reassurance that Kellan is still breathing. Still fighting.
I sit beside him in the dim hospital room, one hand on the blanket draped over his thigh. His eyes flutter open now and then, then drift shut again like the pain meds are pulling him under a warm tide.
He doesn’t speak, but he squeezes my fingers when I curl them through his. He stirs, barely. A twitch of fingers. A soft sound in his throat. Then his voice, low and raspy. “You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. It wobbles at the end anyway. I don’t feel strong. I feel like if I letgo of this bed rail, I’ll dissolve into pieces and scatter across the floor.
His eyes stay closed. He swallows hard. “Could’ve gone home.”
I could have. But I didn’t.
“You’re not that lucky.” A soft, shaky laugh escapes me, and I drape over him, hugging him around the neck. “I thought you were going to die,” I whisper.
“You always did take my dramatic flair too seriously,” he murmurs back.
God, I missed that voice.
“I’m still mad at you,” I tell him, wiping at my tear-soaked face with his blankets. “For almost bleeding out on a floor right in front of me.”
“Ah,” he exhales. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
We fall into silence again, and I let him rest, feeding him from a little plastic cup of ice chips. He lets it melt on his tongue, watching me like I’m some kind of miracle. “I didn’t expect mafia hospitals to be set up like this,” he says.
“You’ve never been?” I ask in surprise, pushing his hair off his forehead.
“Happily, I can say no. I’m the only one of us brothers who’s never been stabbed or shot.”
“Well, you are the baby of the family,” I say with a smile.
“That’s what I always say. I really just play the best defense.” He chuckles weakly, half wincing. “So. You killed him.”
“I know.” The words catch in my throat, and I try clearing them out. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t plan it. I just moved.”
He nods slightly, keeping his head still. “That’s how it happens. First time’s always a reflex.”
I think back to the moment. The weight of the gun. The heat in my palms. The way Fionn’s eyes barely registered surprise before they went still. And then Kellan’s blood was…everywhere. Pouring out faster than I could stop it.
My heart claws against my ribs like it’s trying to escape me. I want to tell Kellan the truth. It wasn’t my first time. But I don’t. Instead, I wipe my palms on my jeans. They’re clammy and useless. “I keep expecting guilt to hit me. Or…something. But I don’t feel bad. Not about him.”
“Don’t.” His eyes crack open now. They’re duller than usual, unfocused, but he’s present. “He deserved worse than you gave him. He was a monster. We were just his tools. You didn’t kill a father, Caroline. You broke a weapon.”
I nod, but I can’t keep the tears from coming. I’m sobbing, emptying myself out on the bed in front of him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I saw you fall. And I thought…God, Kellan, I thought that was it. I thought you were already gone.”
His jaw flexes. “It was close,” he murmurs. “Closer than I like.” He shifts a little, testing the boundaries of the pain. A sharp inhale tells me he’s found them.
“Don’t move.” The words are sharper than I mean. My hand moves on instinct, reaching for his. He catches it, wraps his fingers around mine like he never wants to let go.
His grip is firm. Not desperate. Not possessive. Just…warm.
