Page 104 of Twisting Beauty

I would have to intervene.

My mind turned to the skeleton-masked boy.

Bas.

Perhaps he could be useful after all.

32

LIATH

Istood at Rua’s bedroom window the next evening with one hand braced against the cold glass, staring past the black trees and the dark sheen of the lake to the distant spires of the asylum. The sight of Magdalene in the distance made the room feel smaller, as if even here that place still had fingers in me.

I could not decide which was worse, being trapped in that ward or being trapped here with Lorcan under my skin.

My phone pinged.

It was Nuala, checking in on my fake illness, notes attached for the classes I’d missed, and her wishes that I feel better soon.

I stared at the screen longer than the message required, guilt moving low and mean through me. Nuala had offered kindness with both hands from the moment we met, and all I had done in return was lie to her face and let her keep caring anyway.

I couldn’t explain Lorcan to Nuala. I couldn’t even explain Lorcan to myself. And Nuala had enough of her own weight to carry, the scholarship, the part-time shifts, Bridgit.

Whatever this thing with Lorcan was, it stayed inside these walls.

I scrolled back up through the other messages from today.

There was a text from Finn, short and curt.

Finn: Nuala says you’re not feeling well. Feel better, hey?

There was a group chat with Rafe and Breezy, the least concerning thing being how the hell they’d gotten my number.

Rafe: oi what u do to our boy?

Breezy: yeah, Lorc’s been acting like a right prick all day.

Rafe: almost took coach’s head off at training.

Breezy: broke his fave hurling stick against a wall.

I’d read that twice. Lorcan Lasair, who never cracked in front of anyone, had spent an entire day breaking things at training because I had not answered my phone.

A mean little spark of satisfaction flared in me, and I crushed it at once.

Farther up the screen, my own message from last night sat there in its little bubble, sent to the number I’d been given for emergencies only.

Me: I want out.

And below it, his reply, time-stamped two minutes later like he’d been expecting my message.

Unknown: Dervla is counting on you.

The walls of Rua’s bedroom pressed half an inch closer and I made myself breathe through it, slow and deliberate, until my chest loosened enough to function.

There was no out. There had never been an out.

I deleted the messages the way I’d been instructed to, angry at myself because even after all this, I was still fucking doing what he told me to.