Phelan moaned as he woke again, eyes blinking open to stare at wooden planks lit by a lantern whose flame flickered and danced as if worried by an errant breeze. His body ached more now than it had earlier and his head still spun from what he’d seen, what he’d heard.
Seamus is alive and he’s here—wherever here is. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.
“Awake?” a deep voice asked. Phelan opened his eyes and glanced to the side, peering at the man seated at his bedside with a book in his hands.
“I know you,” Phelan murmured. “Don’t I? Then and now.”
“I punched you when you came here,” J.T. said. “And then told them that you were good people anyway.”
Phelan nodded slightly. “I—yes. You were her grandson. Mairéad’s grandson.”
“Yeah. You showed up too late.”
He squinted at him. Jameson. He’s…he’s…
“Bloody fucking hell,” Phelan swore, glaring at the ceiling. “It’s at the tip of my brain and I can’t quite wrap my fingers around it.”
“From what’s been said, it sounds like that’s not entirely uncommon in this type of situation.” Jameson shifted in his chair, his gaze intense as he stared at Phelan. “How do you feel? Other than frustrated.”
“I hurt,” Phelan said, unable to articulate it beyond that.
“That doesn’t surprise me. You were in a fight.”
Phelan swore under his breath and closed his eyes again. “The girl. The blonde. She—I—”
“Jac,” Jameson said quietly. “And yes. You’re a thing. I’m not sure how long you’ve been sleeping together, but you have been. You seemed really happy.”
His heart gave a painful squeeze. I’ve been looking for that for a long time. Didn’t think I’d found it. Now I have and something’s…something’s taken it from me. His jaw tightened.
No. I won’t let that be the way it is.
I can’t.
