Page 76 of The Thief
"And after?" I ask. "When Trace is dead and this war is over?"
"After, you decide what kind of life you want to build. Here with us, or somewhere else entirely. Your choice."
The door opens before I can respond. Denis enters, followed by two women I don't recognize, a blonde and a redhead, they are both beautiful.
"Alastríona," Denis says, "I'd like you to meet more of the family. This is my sister, Makenna, and my daughter, Holly."
Makenna Gallagher is stunning in a dangerous way. Blonde hair, blue eyes like mine, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how deadly you are. She moves like a predator, all controlled grace and barely contained violence.
"Finally," she says, studying me with those sharp blue eyes. "I've been wanting to meet Killian's daughter."
Holly looks to be in her early twenties, with red hair and freckles and the same intelligent eyes that seem to run in this family. She smiles at me, warm and genuine.
"Da's told me so much about you," she says. "I can't believe you grew up in Belfast without knowing about any of us."
"Makes two of us."
"Right," Makenna says, all business now. "We need to train you."
"Train me for what?"
"To fight. To protect yourself. To not be a liability when things go sideways."
The words sting, even though I know she's probably right. In their world, being unable to defend yourself makes you a target.
"I can handle myself," I say.
"Can you? Because from what I hear, Freddie had to save you from some Belfast thugs. That doesn't exactly scream 'capable fighter' to me."
Heat flares in my chest. "Those men had weapons. And there were four of them."
"And there will always be more men with more weapons. That's why you need to be better than them."
Freddie tenses beside me. I can feel the protective energy radiating off him, see his hands clench into fists.
"It's fine," I say, putting my hand on his arm. The tension in his muscles eases slightly at my touch. "She's right. I should know how to protect myself."
"Damn right you should," Makenna says. "Training room's downstairs. Let's see what Killian taught you."
The training room is impressive; mats covering the floor, punching bags hanging from the ceiling, enough weapons to arm a small militia. Makenna strips down to workout clothes, revealing a body that's clearly seen years of hard training.
"Start with the basics," she says, settling into a fighting stance. "Show me what you've got."
I slip off my shoes and tie my hair back. The training room feels different now with everyone watching; it’s heavier, and charged with expectation. I settle into the stance Dad taught me when I was twelve; weight balanced on the balls of my feet, hands up but relaxed, ready to move in any direction.
"Nice form," Denis says from the sidelines. Malcolm and Danny have joined us, along with Holly and even Henry, who is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with the kind of interest that suggests this is more than casual curiosity.
"Form's easy," Makenna says, circling me like a predator. "Let's see if you can use it."
She comes at me fast, testing my reflexes. A sharp jab toward my face that I slip by inches, letting it whistle past my ear. She follows immediately with a hook to my ribs that I block with my forearm, feeling the impact reverberate up my arm.
She's good. Trained, professional, the kind of fighter who's seen real violence. But she's also predictable in the way that formally trained people often are. She moves in combinations, follows patterns, thinks three moves ahead instead of reacting to what's happening now.
Dad didn't just teach me to fight. He taught me to read people, to see their tells, to know what they're going to do before they do it. Watch their eyes, mo stór, his voice echoes in my memory. The body lies, but the eyes always tell the truth.
Makenna's eyes flick left before she throws her next combination. Right cross, left hook, knee to the body. I can see it coming from the way she shifts her weight, the slight tightening around her eyes.
I slip the cross by a hair's breadth, duck under the hook, and as she commits to the knee, driving her weight forward, I step into her guard and drive my elbow into her ribs. Hard.
