Ward Cameron lit a cigar like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t asking his son to kill the only person he couldn’t stop thinking about.
“She knows too much,” Ward said, casually, like they were discussing weather. “JJ’s sister. The one with the smart mouth. You know the one.”
Rafe’s jaw twitched.
“Madelyn,” he said, voice low.
Ward gave him a sharp look. “You getting soft, Rafe?”
Rafe didn’t answer.
Soft? No. Not soft.
He was obsessed. Possessed. Every time she looked at him with those wide, lying eyes, he wanted to ruin her. Every time she touched his hand—accidentally, on purpose—he felt like maybe the world wasn’t so fucking loud anymore. She was poison and cure. And she hated him in front of the Pogues. But when no one was watching?
She didn’t pull away so fast.
It was supposed to be quick. One shot. One less Pogue.
But she ran.
She knew he was coming.
He found her in the marsh, panting, barefoot, covered in cuts. She spun to face him, chest heaving, eyes furious and wild.
“You shouldn’t have come with them,” he said quietly. “You should’ve stayed the hell away.”
“You think I wanted this?” she snapped, stepping back, heart in her throat. “I didn’t choose sides, Rafe. Your dad did. You did.”
“Madelyn—” he raised the gun, and his hand shook. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you do,” she whispered. Her voice broke. “You always do.”
He blinked. For one second, he saw it: her hands in his, no gold, no war, no Pogues or Kooks—just her. But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
He fired.
She collapsed.
The world fell out from under him.
He ran to her. Dropped the gun in the mud. Blood soaked the fabric of her shirt, just beneath her ribs. Not fatal. He hadn’t let himself aim right. She was unconscious. But breathing.
“Fuck—” his voice cracked. “Why’d you make me do this?”
He cradled her face with both hands, brushing the hair off her cheek, and for once, he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t anything. Just empty. And terrified.
“You’re okay. You're gonna be okay,” he whispered. “You always talk so much, Mads. Say something now.”
Silence.
“Please,” he added, barely audible. “Don’t die.”
He carried her through the back roads, through the dark, across the line that divided their lives. The same arms that could break her were now desperate to keep her alive.
At Tannyhill, he didn’t go to the main house. No. He took her to the guest house out back, the one no one used anymore. Dust-covered sheets and broken memories. It would have to do.
He laid her on the old bed like she was something fragile.
Then he cleaned her wound with trembling hands, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over like a prayer.
It was hours before she stirred.
Her lashes fluttered. A wince. A soft groan. Her fingers moved against the blanket. Rafe shot up from the chair.
“Madelyn—”
She opened her eyes, blinking against the light. Her voice was hoarse. “Did you—kill me?”
He let out a breath. A laugh. Shaky, bitter, and so full of relief it cracked him open.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Asshole.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, sitting beside her. “Could’ve let you bleed out.”
“You shot me.”
“I saved you.”
“You shot me first,” she said, struggling to sit up. Her breath hitched with pain. He steadied her, and she didn’t fight his touch. Not right away.
“I didn’t hit anything vital,” he said. “I couldn’t.”
She looked away.
Silence stretched.
Then, quietly, like a confession: “Why’d you bring me here?”
He stared at her. Eyes hollow. Voice soft. “Because if my dad finds out you’re alive, he will finish the job.”
“And you care?” she asked, but it wasn’t sarcastic. It was broken. Honest.
He reached out. Touched her hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “I care.”
She didn’t pull away.
“God, Mads,” he said, voice ragged. “You don’t get it. I think about you. All the time. Even when I don’t want to. Especially then. You’re in my head like a fucking hurricane and I can’t get out.”
Her eyes shimmered, something unreadable behind them. “You scare me.”
“I scare me too,” he said, half a smile. “But I’m not gonna hurt you. Not anymore.”