I grab his wrists, and they are shaking so violently that my own arms vibrate from the contact. I pull them away from the floor and drag him forward.
He doesn't fight me, I don’t think he even has the strength left to be angry. He falls into me like a felled oak, his forehead slamming into the crook of my neck, his heavy shoulders trembling against my chest.
"I've got you," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.
He smells like expensive sandalwood and the copper tang of the ballroom floor. His breathing is a fast stutter against my skin, his chest shaking so hard I can feel the rhythm in my own ribs.
I start to rock him. Just a slow, subtle sway against the wall, the way you hold a child who forgot the world is allowed to be quiet.
And then, I start talking.
"We're going to do some math, Lorcan," I say, keeping my voice low, rhythmic, and absolutely certain. "Simple math. Let's count the ledger. Five years is 60 months. Sixty months is 1825 days. That’s how long you’ve been carrying Elara's ghost in your head. That is a stupid amount of interest on a debt you don't even owe."
He lets out a ragged, choked gasp, his fingers fisting into the red silk at my waist. He’s holding on so tight the fabric groans, his knuckles pressing into my ribs like I’m the only solid thing left on the planet.
"In Brooklyn, my rent was $1800 a month," I go on, my cheek resting against his damp hair. I keep rocking him, steady, slow. "For a studio. The radiator hissed every morning at five. It sounded like an angry cat. My friend Tania tried to fix it with duct tape once. It didn't work. The tape melted and smelled like burning plastic for three weeks. Our landlord told us it was 'character.' I told him his legal liabilities had character."
I feel his chest heave. The breathing is still shallow, but the wild, terrifying spikes are beginning to round out.
He's listening. Keep going.
"The sunroom in your house has exactly 12 windows," I whisper into his hair. "The puzzle has 500 pieces. We've done 312 of them. Most of the sky is left. You told Maeve the sky is just light getting confused by the air. That’s a terrible explanation, by the way. It’s physics. It’s light scattering through atmospheric particles. But I let you have it because you looked so pleased with yourself."
He doesn't answer, but his fingers slowly relax their grip on my dress, his hands flattening against my back, warm and heavy.
"Breathe in for four," I command, pressing my palm flat against his spine, feeling the massive muscles beneath the fabric. "One, two, three, four. Hold it. Now out. One, two, three, four. Again, Lorcan."
He follows the count. It takes ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Time doesn't work right in a corridor after a shootout, but slowly, the tension in his shoulders begins to bleed out. His frantic gasping slows, replaced by deep, chest-filling breaths.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look at me. He just stays there, his forehead pressed into my shoulder, his breathing turning slow, heavy, and rhythmic.
He’s exhausted. Genuinely, completely exhausted. He settles against me as his body finally gives up the fight, and within minutes, his muscles go slack.
He actually fell asleep.
I look down at the dark curls of his hair. The ruthless Don of the Irish Syndicate is sleeping on my shoulder like a tired kid.
I wait. I stay perfectly still for another ten minutes, until his breathing is deep and rhythmic, a solid, heavy thrum against my collarbone.
Then, slowly, carefully, I shift his weight. I slide out from under him, supporting his head with one hand so it doesn't hit the hardwood. I lay him back against the wall, propping his shoulder against the trim so he doesn't roll over.
I stand up. My legs are stiff, my knees aching from the floor, my thighs sore from... well, from earlier. I look down at myself. The red silk dress is wrinkled and smudged, but I’m still wearing my tailored black tuxedo blazer over my shoulders. I slip it off. It’s too big for him, but the wool is thick and warm.
I drape the blazer over his shoulders, tucking the lapels around his chest to keep the drafts out. He stirs, a low, gravelly grunt leaving his throat, but his eyes stay closed.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my dress, and turn toward the corridor doors.
My turn to run the numbers.
I push the heavy double doors open and step out.
The hallway outside is filled with his men. Kieran is leaning against the wall, a bloody, makeshift bandage wrapped around his forearm, looking like he's about to pass out. Echo is pacing, his hand glued to his radio. A dozen other enforcers are standing in a silent, tense circle, waiting.
The moment the door clicks, every single head snaps toward me.
"Where is he?" Kieran asks, taking a step forward, his eyes wide. "Atara, is the boss okay?"
"He's sleeping," I say. My voice is quiet, but it has a cold, flat weight to it that stops the room cold. "And he is not to be disturbed. Understood?"
