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SAOIRSE
As I walk awayfrom Liam’s room, my body feels laden, worn down by the hate that flickered in his eyes. When he asked me that question, the last thing I wanted to do was lie to him. Not when I’m consumed by a lifetime’s worth of those already.
He deserved my truth, no matter how detrimental that truth may be.
My temple tightens as the heaviness of the day settles behind my eyes. Rubbing my closed eyelids with my fingertips, I can feel the first signs of a migraine brewing. Bypassing my bedroom, I take a quick trip down to the kitchen for a glass of water and some migraine relief. I pop two pills onto my tongue before washing them down, then drag myself to my room, more than ready to sleep off this shit show.
Finally, exhausted from my rollercoaster of a day, I push through my bedroom door, but halt mid-step when I notice the stretched-out figure fast asleep in the middle of my bed. Once I’m in the room, I peer out into the hallway to see if anyone is watching. My eyes dart left and right, then I shut my door gently and twist the lock, making sure neither Liam nor Beibhinn barge in to find a half-naked, passed out Rohan in my bed.
Shit! What the actual fuck? How did he even get in here?
My feet carry me towards him, but the closer I get to the bed, the more prominent the distinct stench of alcohol becomes, so fucking potent it floods my nose until I can almost taste it on my tongue. A wrinkle appears above my nose as my stomach churns.
Fucking hell, Rohan, how much did you drink?
Lying flat on his stomach with his forearm tucked beneath his head, his neck cranes to the side as the moonlight shimmers through the window, highlighting his face. My hand reaches out to shake him awake, but just before I reach him, I stop in my tracks, noting the half-smile gracing his sleeping face. He looks so different from the usual cocksure arsehole I’m used to. Gone are the sarcastic taunts and the dark cloud that seems to hang over his head. In his sleep, he looks…almost peaceful. As though all his worries, responsibilities, and whatever haunts his soul doesn’t reach him in his dreams. He looks young and vulnerable — a complete contrast to the walking devil with the sinful smile.
Somehow, that thought brings a smile to my lips. Finally, I reach forward, brushing the hair off his face.
A gasp escapes me when I see he hasn’t bothered to wash the blood off his face or tend to any of his wounds. Appears he numbed whatever pain he was feeling at the bottom of a bottle instead. My fingers twitch, needing to erase the blood-stained evidence from his face. Instead, I kneel on the floor, resting my head on the mattress next to his head, and like some crazy creeper, I watch as his lashes flicker while he dreams. Inaudible murmurs vibrate against his lopsided grin, and for a brief second, I wonder who he is talking to, and is it them who has him smiling like a little boy who just met the real-life Batman.
Finally, I give in to the urge to touch him again and allow my fingertips to brush over his bruised cheek. “Who is the man behind the monster, Rohan?” It’s a breathless question, barely a whisper in the breeze, but he stills. His chest goes rigid, with no evidence of his exhale, almost as though he heard every syllable. Suddenly, he shifts, rolling over on his back, and giving me a full view of his tattooed torso. This is the first time I’ve seen his naked chest up this close, and fucking hell, he belongs on one of those thirst-trap TikTok videos. You know, the ones with the‘This is a Work of Art’sound.
My greedy eyes drink up the patchwork designs dotting his torso, mismatched pieces of art that all make up the man lying before me. Everything from skulls, roses, knives, and even a small grave with the words‘I Blame Society’engraved on the headstone. Finally, my eyes land on the largest piece that covers most of his left side — three swords overlap in the shape of a six-pointed star and surrounding the blades, right where the three swords cross, is a crown. Upon closer inspection, I see the initials etched onto the sword's handles. B, K, and D. Then, right in the centre of the crown, is the letter R surrounded by jewels. The original Kings of Killybegs — Brady, King, Devereux, and finally, Ryan.
It’s a beautiful piece, and it looks far fresher than the rest of the work. The ink is darker and more vivid. Finally, my gaze falls south, tracing the sharp edges of his hip bones down to the delicious V that disappears into his sweatpants. My mouth waters at the small scattering of black hair beneath his belly button, a landing strip that leads to his dick.
Jesus, what is it about this guy that stuns me stupid?
I draw my wandering eyes back towards his face and nearly swallow my tongue when I find his sleepy eyes glaring at me with amusement. “Well, hello, love.” A wide smile steals the bottom half of his face, showcasing his perfectly white teeth. “I fell asleep.” His tone is strange, lilted with humour and playfulness. “Come here. I need a snuggle.” He barks out a laugh, and his chest rises as he chuckles. “Snuggle,” he repeats. “What a funny word!”
My cheeks heat, and I’m sure if I were to look, they would be an obnoxious shade of pink. “Rohan, how much did you drink?”
He lifts his hand off the mattress, suspending it in the air. He holds his pointer finger above his thumb, leaving a tiny space. “Just a little, ma'am. I swear.”
He’s clearly wasted. “What are you doing here?” I prompt. “And how did you get in?”
Pushing up on his elbows, he lifts his head from the pillow and sways forward. I grip his biceps, holding him steady while he kicks his feet over the edge of the bed. Once I feel like he’s stable enough to hold himself up, I release him.
“Window.”
Peering over my shoulder, I notice the window pushed out further than normal. “You climbed up here drunk? Jesus, Rohan, you could have hurt yourself.”
“I’m already hurting, mo bhanríon. Come, kiss my boo-boos better.”
Rolling my eyes, I ignore his drunken advances. “Stay here. Do not move.” He flops back, his head bouncing off the mattress as I head for the bathroom attached to my room.
Lowering myself to my hunkers, I root through the cabinet beneath the sink until I find a small packet of make-up remover pads. I stand, then run them beneath the hot water faucet, dampening them. It’s not the best-case scenario, but at least I can remove the dried blood from his brow and cheeks.
When I inch back into the room, Rohan is lying horizontally across the bed. His arms criss-crossed over his face. “Love?” he questions.
“Rohan. How many times have I told you? Stop calling me that!”
He raises his arms higher, dropping them above his head before twisting his neck so his eyes are on me. “Never. You are love. I am hate. But who will win these wicked games we play? Oh, that rhymes. Ha!”
I shake my head, amused by this version of Rohan. He’s almost…cute. Finally, when I make it back to the bed, I sit beside him and usher him to sit up so I can clean his face. “Up you get.”
“Oh, I may be as pissed as an ole boot but have no fear, mo bhanríon. For you, I’ll always get it up.”
