CIARA’S POV
The sparring ring felt smaller today. Every time I threw a punch or dodged Noah's strikes, Darragh's words echoed in my head: I think my father is the one who kills her.
His voice had cracked when he said it. The pain in it made my chest tight. How do you live with suspecting your own father of murder? How do you function when the person who raised you might be a killer? And I thought I had it bad.
I stumbled backward, Noah's fist barely missing my jaw. My feet tangled, and I hit the ground hard. The impact jarred my teeth.
"Again," Noah said, extending his hand to help me up.
I took it, brushing dirt from my training clothes. "Sorry. My head's not clear today."
"My head's not clear either," he said, stepping back into position. "It never is. But no one gives a damn about
