With a man like Shane, it was hard to say no. His eyes were green as emerald, sharp and hypnotic. His smile—wicked enough to convince heaven it belonged in hell—could pull anyone straight into his arms, arms that seemed safe until you were already trapped. He had that sly charm that knocked girls right off their feet and into a place they couldn’t escape.

You fell for it a year ago, and you’d never managed to climb out. At seventeen, your sanity was hanging by threads, your life already tangled in his. Shane had a way of working into every corner of your mind—persuasive, cunning, and unwilling to ever let go.

He was nineteen with a reputation so bad your parents, your family, and your friends refused to even hear his name. Everyone in Cork knew him—Shane Holland, the drug dealer. Not just a dealer—the dealer.

The day the gardaí showed up at his door, you both knew you had to run. You were young, unprepared, and school was already over for you before it had truly ended. You followed him east, landing in a filthy, crumbling apartment in Waterford. The rent was cheap, but money was scarce. Shane kept selling, kept disappearing, and every time he left he gave the same warning:

“If anyone wants to come in, don’t let them in. If it’s the gardaí, give a fake name, deny everything. And if you don’t—”

You knew the rest. Shane wasn’t the gentleman he pretended to be. His temper was quick, his hands heavy. The bruises scattered over your skin were reminders you didn’t need.

Now, you sat at the chipped kitchen table, the air stale with damp and smoke. Shane leaned against the counter, a joint hanging between his fingers, the ash long and ready to fall. His gaze flicked to you—sharp, unreadable—and you could feel the weight of it settle in your bones.