I grab the phone from his hand, then stop. My thumb hovers over the screen. I look at him, at the hard lines of his face, his eyes.
I shut off the phone and toss it aside.
"I don't want this moment to end," I say. "Can we just cuddle for a bit before all hell breaks loose?"
His expression softens as he shifts and pulls me into him, burying his face in my hair. "Come here."
I crawl into his arms, press my face into the crook of his neck, and breathe him in. I try to keep my mind in the present, to focus on the warmth of his skin, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the way his fingers tangle in my hair.
But it doesn't last as long as I hope.
The thoughts of what's waiting on that phone press down on me relentlessly. My mind races with Cormac Donoghue and The Morrígan.
I exhale sharply and sit up, pulling away from him. "Okay, fine." I grab the phone and turn it back on. "I can't wait too long. I'm ready for the chaos."
Octavian sits up beside me. "It's in my emails."
I scroll to the mail icon and tap it. The screen loads, and an email pops up at the top of the list. The subject line makes my breath catch.
Donoghue Massacre.
I tap it, and the email opens. My eyes scan the first few lines, and my pulse quickens.
"Turns out," Octavian says, his voice quiet beside me as I’m reading, "that fire story you found, it's him."
I read faster.
Forty years ago, the Donoghue family, an Irish mafia bloodline, was wiped out in a coordinated attack. Police reports list it officially as accidental.
The don's house was hit. No survivors. Burned down.
Cormac Donoghue, the only son, was twelve. Listed as dead.
I look up at Octavian, confusion twisting in my chest. "It says he's dead."
"Keep reading."
I scroll down, my fingers shaking slightly.
But records show a boy matching his description was committed to a psychiatric ward under a false name. He claimed his family was burned alive by people, and he hid in a special wall panel put in by his father, then was taken by unknown individuals to the hospital. While in the ward, he went crazy and claimed?—
I stop. My heart leaps into my throat. Goosebumps spread across my skin, prickling down my arms, my back, my legs.
"Holy shit."
Octavian's hand finds my thigh.
"The Morrígan had come to help him."I shake my head. "What the hell," I say. My voice sounds hollow.
"Yeah," Octavian says. "And then it says he eventually stabilized over the years with medication and was released at eighteen."
I do the math in my head, my mind sluggish with shock. "Okay, so..." I count silently. "He'd be fifty-two, then. Yeah, the guy I saw definitely could have been that age."
I keep reading, my eyes blurring slightly as the words swim on the screen.
I lower the phone and look at Octavian. "Do you think this is him?"
"I do," Octavian says, his voice certain. "And my contact thinks so as well. I'm asking him to find a recent picture of him, but that'll take time."
