“I remember killing your mother,” Colm hums, tone disgustingly and deceptively calm.

He had his men tie you by your wrists to a tree just outside an O’Driscoll camp before he finally came to meet you after three days.

He’s got his cattleman revolver in his hand, the muzzle dangerously close your head— as if contemplating blowing your brains out.

You know he won’t. Not yet. If anything, he would savour dragging this out.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t kill you too.”