Groaning, I open my right eye because my left one is almost closed over, thanks to the beating I got last night.
“Bout ye? Ya look like shite.”
Turning my cheek, I see Cian sitting in the armchair, skimming through a copy of Macbeth.
“Ach, happy days,” I reply, flinching as I shift to lean against the headboard. I’m breathless from the simple action.
“He lamped ya good this time, didn’t he?”
It’s not uncommon for Cian to find me black and blue, thanks to my dad’s fists. It’s a sight he’s seen many times over the years. But this time is different because I’m going to fight back; just not in the way everyone thinks.
“I need yer help,” I say, which has Cian placing the book on the armrest. “I want to go to Dublin.”
Cian blinks once, appearing to need a moment to process what I just sai
