The moment stretches between us, rain pattering softly around us. I should probably say something meaningful, something to acknowledge whatever just happened, but before I can form the words, a shout breaks the silence.
“Kane! Where the hell are you?”
Declan’s voice echoes across the castle grounds. Reality crashes back like a bucket of cold water.
“Down here!” I call back, reluctantly pulling myself to my feet and helping Kori up. “You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask her quietly.
She nods, though her eyes betray uncertainty. “We should probably...”
“Talk about this later,” I finished for her. “Yeah.”
Declan appears at the castle entrance, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. “What are you doing out in the rain? We found something.”
“Kori had a panic attack,” I explained, not bothering to mention the kiss. “There’s a skeleton in the lower level.”
“A what?” Declan’s beam swings to Kori. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice stronger than I expected. “Just got overwhelmed for a minute.”
“A skeleton?” Declan repeats, focusing on what he thinks is the clearly more important part of my statement.
“Old. Military uniform, maybe. Been there a while.”
He nods, processing this information. “We need to show you what we found. Inside.”
We follow him back into the castle, my hand instinctively finding the small of Kori’s back as we navigate the uneven floor. She doesn’t pull away, which I count as a win.
The others are gathered in what might have once been a study or library, judging by the remains of bookshelves lining the walls. Wren holds up a photograph as we enter—faded but recognizable as a young woman with dark hair and eyes that look unsettlingly familiar.
“We think this is your sister,” she says, handing me the photo.
I stare at the image, a strange tightness in my chest. The girl is maybe sixteen or seventeen, with the same high cheekbones and dark hair I see in the mirror every day. There’s no mistaking the resemblance.
“There’s more,” Kat says, gesturing to a desk where several papers are spread out. “Birth certificates, adoption records, letters. She was called Ella.”
“Was?” I repeat, not liking the past tense.
“We don’t know if she’s still alive,” Declan says carefully. “The most recent document we found is from fifteen years ago.”
I scan the papers, trying to make sense of the fragments of a life I never knew existed. According to the documents, Ella was born in Moscow to aRussian woman named Irina Petrova. There’s no father listed on the birth certificate.
“Tomas must have met her mother in Russia,” Rory theorizes. “Back when he was handling the Eastern European expansion.”
“Expansion of what, exactly?” Kori asks, her shoulder pressed against mine as she examines the documents.
“The family business,” Declan answers vaguely.
“Right. The ‘import-export’ business,” she says, making air quotes.
I ignore their exchange, too focused on piecing together my sister’s story. “She was brought to Ireland when she was three,” I murmur, reading from what appears to be an immigration document. “That would have been around the time my mother got pregnant with me.”
“The timeline fits,” Declan agrees. “Tomas was involved with both women simultaneously.”
“Classy guy,” I mutter, anger flaring at the man who fathered me and then arranged for another man to raise me—a man who resented me my entire life.
“There’s something else,” Wren says, her voice gentler than usual. She hands me a yellowed envelope with my name in faded ink.
My heart stutters in my chest as I recognize the handwriting—the same as on the letter we found atTara. With fingers that aren’t entirely steady, I open the envelope and unfold the single sheet of paper inside.
