Owen

I twist my fingers with hers, and kiss each of her knuckles. “Ye feel good here.”

She murmurs an agreement, but she’s gone quiet again, and I have no idea what she’s thinking.

My thumb traces the tattoo on her wrist, a symbol she’d marked herself with to remind her of Ireland, of her family, of me.

Hell, how am I going to let this girl go?

Raw emotions build inside me. The need to know her, every broken part she’ll allow me to see, is intense.

“Ye never told me where ye went after yer mom left.”

She tenses in my arms, then starts to roll away. “Why do you keep pressing this?”

I lean on my forearm, and watch all the walls she’d let down build back up, brick by brick. She grabs my t-shirt and pulls it over her head, then sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers through the dark tangle of hair.

“I want to know more about ye.”

She huffs a frustrated breath towards the ceiling.

I sit up, and pull her against me, so that her back is resting against my chest, then thread my fingers with hers. “Ye’re a part of my world now. Once the media finds out, people will start to dig. If there are skeletons yer hiding-”

“If it’s the band you’re worried about, your reputation-”

“I’m worried about yer reputation. Yer name being dragged through the gossip columns.”

“I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she mutters.

“Good to know,” I chuckle, burying my face in her hair and inhaling her intoxicating scent.

“Why are you so convinced I’m hiding anything?”

“Am I wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives a small shake of her head.

“Tell me about Frank.”

She tries to sit up, but I wrap my arms around her, holding her to me. “Frank was an asshole.”

Darkness skates across her features and dread curls in my stomach, warning me that I won’t like what I find if I keep digging.

“But yer mom left ye with him?”

A sad sigh slips from her and she nods.

The admission strikes me deep. I know about loss. About losing a mother to her own fucked-up desires. My mom left Cillian and I when we were still kids, started a new family, like the one she had wasn’t good enough.

But she’d left us with my father. And even though he was a drunk, he loved us. And at least Cillian and I had each other, had our friends.

Bree had no one.

“Did he hurt ye?” I ask, my chest feeling like it’s being squeezed, because it’s the question that’s been spinning through my head all day. The way she keeps favoring her one hand. The distrust I see in her eyes; not just for me, but everyone.

“Owen, please-”

“Answer me, Bree.” I place a palm on her cheek and force her to look at me.

She rubs her hand again, the one that seized up when she was playing the piano, and I know I already have my answer.

“He was more of a control freak.” She shrugs, her eyes going distant. “But when my mom left, he…”

“He what?” The weight of whatever she’s been carrying around with her feels like it’s crushing my ribs. I know I should stop prodding. I feel the turmoil warring inside her. But I need to know her secrets. Not just because I want to know, but so that I can protect her.

Her voice is cold, detached, when she continues. “He took a bat to my piano.” She lifts up her hand. “And I got in his way.”

Anger splinters through me. And a sense of guilt. I know there’s nothing I could have done to protect her, but I wish I could have.

“He’s the one that broke yer hand?”

Another small nod.

Pain twists me in two, and a violence rose up inside me, wanting to hurt the man who’d hurt her.

“Was he charged?”

“He didn’t mean to-”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She lets out a sigh. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Did yer mom know?”

She shrugs. “If she did, she didn’t care.”

“And ye stayed with him?”

“I was fifteen. Had nowhere else to go.”

Fuck.

“But when I left…”

A heavy silence stretches between us, and I know she’s struggling with whether or not to trust me with whatever secret she’s been holding on to.

I take her hand, and brush my lips across her knuckles. “Tell me.”

“I was angry,” she says softly. “I wanted to make a point. Hurt him, like he hurt me.”

“What did ye do?”

She shakes her head, her eyes filling with memories, the storm beneath them collecting speed. “He had this car. A blue ‘57 Chevy. It was the only thing he really loved. Mom and I weren’t allowed near it.” Her lips tug up slightly. “So, I took it.”

“Ye took it?”

“Got two states away before I realized he’d called the police on me,” The confession breaks in her throat. “So, I dumped it, but not before I made sure he’d never drive it again.”

I drag my hand through my hair and let out a breath, wondering what else she’s not telling me, but grateful for this small break in her armor.

“And this Frank guy, is he still a problem?”

“No.”

She’s lying. But I’ve already pushed enough tonight.

I pull her back down, shifting so that her head is resting on my chest. A surge of protectiveness crashes over me.

“Promise me you won’t tell the others any of this.” Anxiety strains her voice.

“Ye didn’t do anything wrong.” I kiss her forehead and pull her closer, swallowing past emotions that are lodged in my throat.

Those same emotions coil and spiral in my chest. Anger towards the man who hurt her. Affection for the woman lying in my arms. And something more. Truth is, I’ve been feeling it since the moment I’d first seen her.

More than just lust. More than just wanting to protect her because she’s the kid who used to follow me around with big, doe-like eyes, looking at me like I hung the fucking stars.

I know what it is, the emotion beating inside me like a manic drummer. But hell, if I want to put a name on it.

I love my family. My friends. They’ve been my life for as long as I can remember. But this. Bree. It’s something else entirely. Something I never thought I’d feel, or even have the ability to experience.

I’ve been so guarded. The walls of my own heart fortified to anyone but my close circle.

One kiss, and it all came crashing down.

Like a tornado, she’d blown into my life and managed to turn my perfectly ordered world upside down.

Lying here, I know that even if I want to, I can’t go back to the way I was. Cold. Distant. Numb. Bree makes feel. I knew bringing her here would mean more than it should. I just didn’t know how much more.

The thought of her leaving, of never seeing her again, is rejected by every damn cell in my body. And the need to protect her trumps every other emotion.

When I hear her soft, even breaths, letting me know she’s finally asleep, I crawl out of bed, and grab my cellphone, scrubbing my hand over my face as I walk to the kitchen.

“Jesus, Gallagher, do you know what time it is?” Kevin Stone, Wild Irish’s manager, grumbles on the other end.

“I need ye to look into something for me.”

I hear the shuffling of sheets, and a woman’s voice in the background, before he answers. “What?”

“I’m going to give ye a name, and I want ye to see what ye can find. Everything. Dig as deep as ye can. Whatever the media can find out, I want to know first.”

“Who is it?”

I rub the back of my neck, hoping I’m doing the right thing. “Beatrice Walsh.”