POV RUBY
The Wicklow estate did not feel like a sanctuary; it felt like a mausoleum of secrets wrapped in the suffocating embrace of the Irish mist. As the engine of the sedan died, the silence that descended upon us was more deafening than the thunderous gunshots on the mountain road. Silas remained in the driver’s seat, his eyes scanning the perimeter with the haunted gaze of a man who no longer expected to see the dawn. Nevan, his hand a warm, blood-stained vice around mine, led me toward the towering entrance of jagged grey stone.
My hands were still trembling. The acrid scent of gunpowder clung to my skin like a fresh sin, and every time I blinked, I saw the strobe-light flash of my own muzzle fire cutting that man down. Nevan knew. He felt the tremor in my bones. He didn’t let go;
