When the sensation passed, and his body grew cold, he lay there in the dark, breathless, empty, and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.
Dublin, Ireland
Three weeks later
If the idea of Christmas heaven was bundling up under layers of clothes and slushing through wet snow across cobbled streets in an epically festive pub crawl, then Dublin was the place.
Cole didn’t mind the cold, and frankly, nothing warmed the blood like a hot Irish whiskey in a cozy Irish inn. So in the dark hours of Christmas Eve, he sat in the quiet corner of a small pub off the beaten path and treated himself to a few of those hot toddies.
Outside, the wind beat against the windows in an icy serenade, forming frozen lace on the glass, delicate and jewel-like. Fire crackled in a nearby hearth, and periodically, the door opened with the draft of snow and incoming Dubliners.
Woolen hats pulled over reddened ears. Scarves wrapped around rosy cheeks. They arrived in pairs, small groups, but never solo as they stamped their boots on the entry mat and made a beeline to the bar.
For this small island of emigrants, Christmas was a time for family and friends. Many returned home to Ireland to spend the season with their loved ones. Others reconnected like the older couple across the room.
With their hands clasped together at shoulder height, they slowly danced in front of the hearth fire, smiling, swaying, locked in eye contact, and lost in their own private world.
Love.
It was the greatest gift they could give each other.
Physical closeness. Emotional warmth. Partners for life. They shared a lasting, soulful kind of love that lifted every part of who and what Cole was.
In that moment, in his dark, solitary corner of the world, all he wished for was another beating heart, one less empty chair, and one more pair of gloves resting on the table beside his.
He’d learned how to fly solo, how to sleep alone, and how to solve his problems unassisted. Over the past twelve years, he’d become a lone wolf, and it had made him a successful, unstoppable force in his job.
But what it left was a form of loneliness that he couldn’t mend by himself.
What it left was a sad man who sat alone in a pub on Christmas.
Throwing back his whiskey, he dropped some money on the table and returned to the streets.
The toothy bite of winter wind nipped at his face. Ice crackled underfoot. Carolers crooned in the distance, and shop window displays flickered beneath strings of rainbow-colored lights.
Grafton Street at Christmas was a wonderland, and for anyone who believed, they could pluck the magic right out of the air.
But he wasn’t a believer in the spirit of anything. Not in a world where he walked alone.
His teeth chattered as the cold seeped into his gloves, numbing his fingers until they ceased to bend. Burrowing deeper into his leather jacket, he pulled his beanie low on his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Then he walked.
He tried to walk off the chill and the direction of his thoughts, all the while keeping constant vigilance on his surroundings, always on the lookout for threats.
Miles later, he took a cab to Dublin 22 and walked some more.
His breath rose in white puffs and faded into the dark, frozen sky. Naked winter trees lined streets that slept peacefully beneath no boots, save his.
The houses around him were home to those in full swing of togetherness, their merriment shining from decorated windows. But out here, he felt only the beat of his heart. A lonely beat, but strong, and growing stronger on the cusp of a decision.
Treading slowly, he kept to the shadows, out of sight, his senses on alert. As if the snow had stopped time and covered all the distractions, he couldn’t see anything but what was right in front of him.
He wasn’t lost. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing as he stared up at a three-story, mid-terraced house made of fieldstones and ancient wood.
With neighbors attached on either side, the old, dilapidated property belonged to Micheál and Shannon O’Sullivan.
Micheál O’Sullivan. Mike.
Shannon O’Sullivan. Lydia’s real name?
Were they married? This seemed to be their permanent home. They’d been holed up in there for two weeks, the longest they’d stayed in any one place since leaving Texas.
He shouldn’t be here.
The wind whipped sleet into his eyelashes and chafed the exposed skin above his beard. But the freezing chill brought a crispness to his thoughts.
Once he walked up to that door, he was involved in this. Connected to her. Committed.
There were a lot of risks.
She could shoot him. Her husband could shoot him. Those who hunted her could shoot him.
They could try.
Under a black sky of wintry snow, he backed away.
Around the property and along the surrounding streets, he slipped through the shadows and swept the perimeter. There was no one outside. No late-night wanderers. No Santa. No reindeer. No hitmen. No present danger.
Dark windows veneered the O’Sullivan house on both sides, suggesting they were asleep or not home. The thought of catching them in bed together sucked the life from his soul, but he wasn’t stopping.
He’d gone as far as he could on this path alone. His next step forward would be with her, and he was prepared to fight.
When he was buried inside her in Texas, she was with him. When he kissed her in Rome, she was with him. Every time he had her body, she gave him her passion, her beautiful desire. And Mike had tolerated it.
Fuck Micheál O’Sullivan, and fuck their relationship.
Keeping to the darkest areas of the walkway, Cole ghosted to the door with a single-minded focus.
The porch creaked beneath his boots, and he paused. A chill crawled over his scalp. Breathless, he glanced back, searching the perimeter for movement. All held still.
As he reached for the handle to check the lock, the wind wiggled the door, cracking it open. It hadn’t been latched. What the fuck?
Alarms fired in his head, tensing his muscles. Quickly, he removed his bulky gloves and drew the handgun from the back of his waistband. Holding it up and out, he expelled a soundless breath and pushed open the door.
Dark, deafening silence enveloped him. He slipped out of the doorway and pressed his back to the adjacent wall, staying hidden. The narrow entryway accommodated only a stairwell that rose into more pitch-black darkness. No other doors on this level. No other rooms. Nowhere to go but up.
He kept the gun trained as he stepped toward the bottom stair, steadily, quietly. Until the shadows moved in his periphery.
The darkness beside the staircase dispersed, and Mike prowled forward, blocking the path to the stairs. He wore a heavy coat, no doubt concealing a myriad of weaponry.
“What do you want, Cole?” Mike asked in a heavy, distinctive brogue.
He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You’re Irish?”
“Born and raised in this house, you thick knacker scumbag.” Mike folded his arms across his chest, his expression etched in hostility. “Why are you trespassing on my property?”
Blood thrashed in his ears, his fingers aching with tension. “Where’s Lydia?”
“Leave.”
“Move. Don’t make me shoot you.”
“You won’t.” Mike smiled cruelly, repeating Cole’s words from Rome. “She won’t forgive you if you do.”
“Who is she to you, Micheál O’Sullivan? Is her real name Shannon? Your wife?”