halcyonic

She knew the moment that Zion decided to return to his corner of the track, she would be bombarded by her family and cornered until she admitted every single detail of their conversation. Then she'd be reminded of the dangers of keeping such company in such a public—or private— settings. What they failed to understand was that it was exactly that type of danger that made it thrilling.

"You'll keep me guessing on which you're more inclined to choose because you've failed to do all of those." Perhaps there was some bigger plan in the works for him. Maybe she was merely a distraction for her family, and that thought had come to mind, but she wasn't looking for the edge he could have on business. Marisol believed that she was the prize and that alone was what brought him here.

"You do know that you're making more enemies than friends by playing sly with me?" She whispered as she looked over his expression. The tension was thick in the air and she knew that if she turned to regard her family, they'd be all wearing the same angry scowl on their face. "But if you'll et me choose which direction you should go. I've always been more keen on words than action. I do believe that sets the best lasting impression on someone." Her hand fell upon his chest as she rose to her tip toes. It felt like a miracle that she could get this close without being torn from him.

"I'm sure you can sense the commotion I'm causing merely by speaking to you. But the real impact is what I can do behind closed doors. Does this bravery of yours extend past the suns limits? Are you this brazen when no one is watching?"

“Enemies?” he echoed, voice a low drawl that rumbled between them. “Sweetheart, I was born into enemies. I quit countin’ a long time ago.” His gaze flicked past her shoulder for just a breath, catching the Gallardo men bristling in their corner, before pinning her back in place. “But you—you’re makin’ the kind I don’t mind havin’. The kind that makes all the rest worthwhile.”

He bent his head just enough that the brim of his hat shadowed both their faces, stealing a moment from the Derby’s blaze. “Behind closed doors?” The words came rough, daring, a whisper meant for no one but her. “That’s where the game actually starts. Out here, it’s all flashbulbs and family scowls. In the dark? That’s where I get to see what you’re really made of. And trust me, Gallardo—I don’t scare easy.”

His hand rose, not to take hers but to hover close, a ghost of a touch at her wrist, like he was waiting to see if she’d let him claim it. “So here’s the deal: you want me quiet, I can be quiet. You want me reckless, I can be that too. But if you’re sayin’ you’d rather I leave you somethin’ that lingers…” His grin curved wicked, sharp as glass. “Then I’ll pick words over action. For now.”

Zion straightened, but only enough to put their faces a breath apart, close enough that the Gallardos’ anger was nearly palpable behind her. “The question is—do you want me to prove I mean it tonight, or are you still pretendin’ you can walk away?”

"It clings to the room, never quite leaves no matter how many lights and music we play as distraction." They had their ways to keep people in uplifting moods despite watching their entire life savings dwindle away. Misery loved company and they were betting on that to keep their floors busy and business fed.

The redhead merely kept her eyes focused on the big players as she tried to decipher who was winning or losing. She was able to read tells as if they bore a sign on their head. She could decipher who was a play away from losing it all. Much like how she was willing to bet that Zion was too intrigued in her interest in his establishment to just let her walk away. Perhaps he was interested in trying to read her just as much as she was he.

"I'll have a glass of brandy." She told him as she hoisted her skirt up to take a seat at a table. "Hello." The redhead greeted the table, folding a leg over the other. The skeptical looks were nothing short of what she was used to, even betting on it to use to her benefit.

"Do you think I can't drink a glass and keep up with the best of them? Don't insult me now that you're so close to getting on my good side." Emma leaned forward and peered back at him. "Are you watching or playing?"

The waiter returned with the brandy, and Zion didn’t bother breaking eye contact as he handed it over, fingers brushing the rim of the glass before she could reach for it. “Far as keeping up with the best of them…” His gaze slid toward the rest of the table — men who’d been too long in the habit of underestimating anything that came in a silk dress — then back to her, a slow, deliberate grin tugging at his mouth. “We’ll see how many rounds it takes before they’re tryin’ to keep up with you.”

He shifted forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, the easy slouch still carrying that predator’s patience. “And for the record,” he murmured, voice dipping to something lower, more private, “I don’t sit at tables I’ve got no intention of winning. So yeah, sweetheart — I’m playing.”

His eyes tracked the movement of her hands, the way she scanned the room. He recognized the habit — the practiced cataloguing of tells and edges — because it was his own. “But here’s the part folks forget,” he added, voice curling with that same knowing amusement from before. “Cards’ll tell you a man’s luck. His eyes’ll tell you if he’s bluffin’. But it’s the silence between the plays that tells you if he’s dangerous.”

He leaned back again, giving her space but never loosening that sharp focus. “So,” he said, nodding toward the untouched deck at the center of the table, “how ‘bout you show me if that pretty readin’ of yours holds up under pressure. Let’s see who we strip bare first — the cards, or each other.”

"oh really?" her curiosity was piqued at his confession, and the softness in her eyes grew even softer if that was possible. scarlett didn't interrupt him, letting him say what he wanted to, and she couldn't explain the feeling that filled her chest - pride? maybe, but not quite, because it felt bittersweet. a warmth to know that her little pictures had done some good for those men risking their lives for everyone else, good that she never even knew about.

"i had no idea..." she said softly. it wasn't something her management had brought up to her. hell, they probably hadn't concerned themselves with it either because it was personal and wasn't about raking in the cash. "well then, i'd be honoured if you paid. thank you." she was quiet for a moment. "i'm just glad my little pictures could be that sort'a comfort for you all. i wish i'd known." she exhaled a soft sigh. "that means more to me than any measly award ever could." and she meant it.

scarlett's mouth ticked up in a half smirk and she allowed herself to laugh, a little levity after a serious moment. "i think you're prob'ly right, they'd laugh you outta town, and i couldn't have that on my conscience. the guilt would be unbearable!" she knew how fragile the male ego could be - and that was no insult from her - no, she just knew all too well how to navigate herself around it. "will they believe you or are you gonna need some proof?"

The warmth lingered for a moment before something quieter moved in to replace it. Her surprise at his confession, the way she spoke about wishing she’d known, tugged at a place in him he didn’t often let anyone near. His gaze dropped briefly to his hands, thumb dragging absently across the rim of his cup.

“Not the sort of thing they’d think to tell you, I reckon,” he said, voice softer now, more thoughtful. “But…it mattered.” He cleared his throat and tipped his head as if to shake something off. “Anyway, it’s a debt that’s been due a long while. I’m glad I get the chance to square it.”

Her teasing about proof pulled his mouth back into something wryer, easier. “Ah, they’ll believe it. Might need to dress it up a bit, though. Tell ‘em you demanded steak and a bottle of something French — make me sound properly heroic.” He leaned back in the booth, one eyebrow ticking upward. “But I don't think it quite matters if they believe me or not."

Scars mapped across his skin spoke louder than the shrug. She traced them with her eyes, not staring, just…noting.

His joke about her coffee being hotter than his own made her laugh. “That’s just because he’s a regular at the hotel I work at. And he’s not visitin’ the suite with his wife and kids. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”

But it was his warning that made her frown. Low. Even. Not a threat, but a key turning in a lock she hadn’t realized was there. “Full tales of strangers don’t scare me. The half truths, the unspoken things of the ones close to you, the ones you trust on the other hand….” She didn’t finish the sentence, bit the inside of her lips instead.

“But I appreciate the help with the wallet and the advice.” Of course she knew who he was, pretty much everyone in this city did and growing up within a syndicate’s confines herself, she knew, at the end of the day they were just humans after all.

Liv wasn’t scared easily. Not of strangers or the unknown or someone’s reputation.

The ghost of a smirk flickered and vanished. “Half-truths are the worse of the lot, though. At least a lie’s got the decency to show you where you stand.”

He took another slow sip of his now-cold coffee, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug. “And trust—” his mouth twisted as if tasting the word and finding it bitter — “that’s a trick of the light. Looks solid until you shift an inch and see the gaps.”

Her quip about the waiter drew a low hum from him, something that might’ve been a laugh if he’d let it. “Fella’s got his priorities, then. Hope the tips are good enough to cover his conscience.”

When she thanked him, he tipped his chin in acknowledgment, eyes still half-shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. “Don’t mention it. Wallets go missin’ all the time. Advice too — whether anyone listens is another matter.”

His gaze lingered on her a beat longer than necessary, steady and assessing. “And for what it’s worth, not bein’ scared isn’t the same thing as bein’ safe. But I reckon you already know that.”

"I feel naked without it." Which wasn't a problem for him to solve or even something she should need to explain to him but the words tumbled out regardless.

Somehow, the belief that he thought she was so careless with an item he'd helped secure bothered her.

"It's an impossible line to walk but that may be the reason why I'm often left in the safety of my own home. Rarely any debts to collect there. At least to people." She'd broken a few dishes and items but that was only an issue for her to solve.

It was a matter of time but she'd been lucky for the most part. "Might be why I'm still out of work but I'll keep my soul for an extra day. We'll see later on if that changes." When the collector came to get money that was owed and didn't have.

"I don't see anyone else I'd want to spend it on." Mali nodded as she deposited the money on the counter, pointing towards the male behind her. "For his food and drinks."

“Safety’s a relative thing,” he added, leaning a hip against the counter. “Four walls keep the cold out, aye, but they don’t do much to keep the world from knockin’. And it always knocks, sooner or later.” The truth of that clung to him like smoke — the house back home, the one that wasn’t there anymore. He’d stopped believing in safe places a long time ago.

Her talk of debts earned the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. “If you’re lucky enough to keep your soul one more day, I’d call that a win. Most folk I know sold theirs off before they even realised they were bidding. So I'd say you're already ahead of most.”

He glanced down at the money she left on the counter. He might indulge in another coffee, keep him alert for when he had to head down to the docks. But the rest, he'd leave to Alberta behind the counter.

Usually it was him who had the ladies and gents swooning though his ego did take a tiny blow at the fact Balik seemed immune to his charms. Never once did it occur to Cormac he could have been the actual reason the doc didn’t smile as much around him but alas. "Woman walks into a room, and it’s like watchin’ a sunrise over the Cliffs—all sunshine and grace. Ye'd be the only one not realizin' it. Never gave me that kinda smile by the way.“

A flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—crossed Eoin's face, vanished before most would've noticed but enough for Cormac to press on relentlessly. "Or are ye tellin' me ye haven't noticed? Because if that's the case, cousin, I'll be havin' words with the doc myself. Clearly, ye need yer feckin' eyes checked." He leaned back again, satisfaction warming him deeper than the coffee before. "Sharp as a tack, me. And that doc?" He whistled low, shaking his head. "Even I noticed, and I’m happily married to me pints down at the derry." Watching Eoin squirm was better than the best Irish whiskey and he was enjoying this way too much to let his cousin off just yet.

"Yer ma's wrath? Pfft. Worth seein' ye squirm." His grin didn’t falter, though. It never did. It was armor, same as Eoin’s stone-face routine. “Aye, tossin' my own shyte back at me now? Classy." He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, the grin turning even more sheepish. "Ah, come off it, Eoin. Shyte looks better? That’s rich comin’ from a lad who’s got more stitches than sense." He waved a dismissive hand, grin stretching. "Feels like yer protestin' a bit much there." Raising a brow, his eyes sparked with challenge. "See, here's the difference—when I look like shyte, it's usually 'cause I've been dancin' with a pretty lass till dawn, not lettin' some ham-fisted eejit use me face as a punchin' bag." Cormac chuckled, low and easy.

He swirled the dregs of his own coffee—black as a priest's heart—before fixing Eoin with that sideways grin of his. "Listen to ye, actin' all high an' mighty. 'Still on yer feet,' he says. Saw ye wobblin' like a newborn foal after O'Donnell clipped ye last Tuesday. Nearly went arse over teakettle into the ropes, ye did." A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he watched Eoin's jaw tighten. "Admit it. Only reason ye're still standin' is 'cause yer picturin' Doc Balik's hands on ye right now, puttin' ye back together." He winked, the neon glow painting streaks of blue across his cheekbones.

The truth was, he did worry. Saw the toll the fighting took, the way Eoin carried it in his shoulders like sacks of stone. But worrying was boring. And the hitman didn't do boring. So he’d poke, and prod — until the stubborn cousin of his either laughed or swung. Either way, it beat sitting quiet. Christ, the man could make brooding an Olympic sport. Cormac’s eyes sharpened, the mocking edge thinning into something quieter: "But don’t go deflectin’ now. I saw ye. Derby night. Shieldin’ the doc like she was the bloody crown jewels. Never seen you do that for anyone. Not even yer favorite cousin - aka me. Right proper knight in tarnished armor, eh?" A mischievous gleam lit his eyes, as he watched Eoin’s face—the flicker in those guarded eyes, the way his cousin’s shoulders stiffened just a tad. Oh, he’d hit the mark, alright. Dead center.

Cormac’s voice dropped, teasing but with an edge of knowing. "Maeve’s got eyes everywhere. She finds out we’re both gettin’ our heads caved in for fun?" He shook his head, the grin turning wry. "She’ll have both our hides. And yours’ll be first on the wall." He shifted his weight, trying to disguise the stiffness in his shoulder. "Last job?" Cormac echoed, his voice dropping into the low register reserved for business. "Nah. Let’s call it an experiment gone a little too well. Or wrong. Depends on how ye look at it."

The jab landed without heat. He wasn’t trying to win this particular argument, just to swat it away like the nuisance it was. Let Cormac read into every flicker of expression he wanted—he’d find nothing. Eoin had spent too many years teaching his face not to give things away, too many nights in rooms where a glance could get you killed, to let his cousin’s teasing dig under the surface now.

At the mention of the Derby, he didn’t so much as blink. Instead, he took another long sip of coffee, like the memory of that night bored him more than anything. “She was standin’ too close to a storm that was getting ready to blow,” he said simply, voice level and without a hint of apology. “That’s all there was to it. I don’t fancy paperwork or moppin’ blood off the floor when things go sideways.” His eyes flicked up, flat and steady. “You’re seein’ knights where there’s only men keepin’ their boots dry.”

He leaned back in the booth, one arm draped loosely along the seat behind him, posture relaxed in that deliberate way that said none of this touched him. The jab about his wobbling earned little more than a grunt. “Wobblin’ or not, I’m still the one left upright when the bell rings,” he shot back, tone cool as a winter river. “Can’t say the same for O’Donnell. He’s still spittin’ teeth, last I heard. So you can keep your jabs, cousin — I’ll stick to the record.”

For a beat, the quiet settled. Neon light hummed against the window glass, the late-night crowd thinned to nothing, and the two of them were left in the sort of silence that only blood and long history could share. It wasn’t comfortable, not exactly, but it was familiar.

Then Eoin’s gaze slid back to Cormac’s shoulder, a pointed look cutting through the pretense. “And whatever experiment you’re runnin’, maybe try one that doesn’t leave you walkin’ like a man twice your age,” he said, voice taking on a faint edge of warning beneath the dry tone. “Maeve’ll have our hides, sure — but she’ll mount yours first. That’s not a guess, that’s a fact.”

A ghost of something wry flickered behind his eyes, the closest he’d come to a confession. “Let’s not pretend I don’t get away with murder easier than you do,” he admitted, the words rough and grudging, like they’d been dragged out of him. “She’ll shout at me, sure. Maybe throw a slipper if she’s feelin’ dramatic. But you?” His mouth twitched again, this time toward a smirk. “She’s still got a wooden spoon with your name carved into it somewhere. And she won’t stop till she’s broken it over your thick head.”

He reached for his coffee again, finishing what little was left. “So maybe keep that experimenting to a minimum, eh? I’ve no interest in sittin’ through one of her sermons on the family’s collective lack of sense. One of us has to stay upright long enough to listen.”

The night had been a grueling masquerade of sorrow and fake condolences. Camila had endured hours of pretending to mourn for a man she had put up with for years. She had played the role of the grieving widow so flawlessly, she could almost believe it herself. But now it was time to shed the mask.

The weight of the evening's charade began to lift as the last guest disappeared through the casino's doors. She had been adept at ignoring his presence, not even sparing him a single glance all night, as if he didn’t exist. It was an unspoken understanding to keep their illicit encounters safely tucked away from prying eyes.

Johnny's vices had been many, and his love for the casino was no secret. It was here that Camila had found a distraction in Eoin's arms. In the back room of this establishment, they had found comfort in each other's embrace. Their previous encounters had been explosive, moments of raw passion that had surprised them both. Her gaze drifted over to Eoin for the first time this evening, as she watched him lock the doors, allowing a smirk to play on her lips.

Her fingers played with the delicate straps of her dress, a silent invitation. "About time..." she murmured, the words a seductive whisper, dancing around the room before coming to rest on his ears. Without waiting for his response, she stepped closer, pressing her body against his. The fabric of her dress was thin, allowing her to feel the hard planes of his chest beneath.

This was what she came for, the raw, unbridled passion that seemed to consume them whenever they were alone together. When she finally reached him, she looked up, her eyes shimmering with a seductive invitation. “Enough pretending for tonight!“

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, tugging them loose one by one. He answered in kind, dragging the thin strap of her dress down over one shoulder. The world narrowed to skin and heat, all the rest of it — the noise, the blood, the ghosts — burned down to ash at the edges.

And then it hit.

A sharp, searing bolt that started low in his spine and shot down his leg, stealing the breath from his lungs and the ground from under his feet. His knee gave the slightest twitch — not a collapse, not quite, but enough that he broke from the kiss with a low, guttural curse.

“Christ—”

The room tilted, not literally but in the way his body betrayed him, dragging him back to the jagged edge of reality. He pressed a palm to the wall to steady himself, jaw clamped so tight it ached. The pain didn’t ease. It never did right away. It just pulsed there, mean and insistent, a reminder of every piece of him the war had chewed up and spat out.

“Not so fast,” he muttered, rough around the edges as he stepped back, more abrupt than graceful. The words weren’t a rejection so much as a reflex — a wall thrown up before he gave anything else away. He braced a hand against the table behind him, jaw clenching as he masked the rest with irritation. “Fuck…” The curse was low, mostly for himself. “Give us a minute.”

No apology, no explanation — just a man unwilling to let her see the crack in the armor, trying to catch his breath while pretending there was nothing to notice at all.

Her breath hitched when the photo slipped free. Time slowed as it fluttered onto his lap. Eoin’s grinning face beside her brother‘s. Younger, softer, untouched by whatever had carved these new hollows beneath his cheekbones.

She saw his throat work when he picked it up. Her eyes traced the scars on his knuckles. White lines against skin leathered by sun and war. The same hands that once lifted her onto his shoulders to watch Belfast parades, now rough-hewn and unfamiliar.

She remembered how they’d felt brushing against her cheek the night before he shipped out, calloused but gentle. Now they looked like weapons.

"Fiona." Her name sounded like a confession dragged from him. Raw. Bruised. Her knees threatened to buckle. She gripped the edge of the booth. Desperate for hold.

The silence stretched, filled with everything unsaid. He slid the wallet back like returning evidence. But the photo... he set it down with a care that cracked her chest open.

He remembers.

She forced her gaze upward, past the collar of his worn shirt, past the jagged scar disappearing into his hairline. His eyes held hers—dark, guarded, but with a flicker of something raw beneath the steel. Recognition wasn’t a question anymore.

It was Eoin. Eoin, who’d vanished into the war’s smoke alongside her brother. Eoin, whose letters never came. Eoin, who’d been dead to her for years.

His attempt at humor fell like lead. Fiona's mouth went dry. Shock and disbelief evident in her expression. Eyes wide open. The letter in her pocket suddenly burned—her father's spidery script, the plea that brought her across an ocean. To find the unthinkable.

“Eoin.“

Outwardly a quiet whisper. Inwardly a loud scream.

A long pause.

“Christ all mighty. It’s you! It’s really you!“, she uttered, her voice steadier than she felt. The Belfast lilt thickened, wrapping around the words like fog off the Lagan. “You… You’re alive.“

His mouth opened, closed again. Nothing came out. What could he say? Aye, I’m alive, but I left the best parts of myself in the dirt beside your brother? That he’d stood in the muck with a bullet lodged somewhere near his soul and never dug it out? That he’d built a life out of debts and violence because it was easier than building one out of grief?

The silence stretched until it was unbearable. He cleared his throat — a small, awkward sound that betrayed more than he liked — and shifted in his seat as though that might steady him. It didn’t.

“Aye,” he said finally, low and hoarse, a ghost of the accent she would remember. “So they tell me.”

It was easier to joke, easier to pull the rough edge of humor over the chasm yawning open between them. But even he could hear how brittle it sounded. His hands found their way to the edge of the table, gripping it as if it might anchor him.

“I don’t… know what you expected,” he managed after a long beat. “A telegram. A priest on the doorstep. Not this.” A rueful snort slipped through his nose. “Christ, I didn’t expect this.”

He looked at her then, properly looked — and regretted it instantly. The way her face cracked open with recognition and disbelief, the way she said his name like a prayer dragged from the deepest part of her chest — it was too much. It was every reason he’d stayed away, wrapped up in one unbearable moment.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, softer than he meant to, not unkind. A confession more than a reprimand. “You’d have been better off never knowing.”

It was the truth — or at least the one he told himself to sleep at night. Because if she’d kept believing he was buried somewhere in France, she could have mourned him clean. She could have hated him, forgotten him. Now, standing here, she’d have to reckon with what was left. And God help him, there wasn’t much worth reckoning with.

He leaned back, dragging a hand over the scarred line of his jaw. “I’m not the lad you remember,” he said quietly.

Leyla watched him, the way his fingers brushed his collar—a reflex as ingrained as breathing. That bruise, faded, but not gone but she’d seen worse on him and without a thought, she reached out instinctively, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. No words, just a genuine gesture. Her eyes silently did the talking for her. Hey, it’s just me. You don’t need to hide anything!

By now she could tell, whatever he ate likely didn’t count as proper dinner in her books but she let it slide. She wrinkled her nose at the mention of the hot dogs served in this place. “Never tried them, not intending on it today either.” Leyla watched the ripple of tension in his shoulders, the careful way he scanned the crowd. Her gaze followed his own momentarily but all she could make out was designer dresses and suits. Of course she knew dangerous figures hid amongst them but it was hard to tell who they were. Too many faces in the same place wearing invisible masks.

His joke landed with a familiar, wry edge, but she’d seen the tension coiled beneath it. “I’ll remind you of that when it comes to it and you’re begging for release.” She teased back, aware of the double meaning of her words this time. Dangerous territory but he delivered that one on a silver platter.

Beside her, Eoin remained unnervingly still, his hand hovered near her elbow, a ghost of protection. Not possessive… not quite. Just… there. Like he expected the crowd to erupt any second. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into the warmth of his arm brushing hers, grounding herself in the solidity of him. A silent anchor in the shifting sea of people.

His deflection about being up to something was expected. Like the bruise, it was something to be acknowledged silently, then left alone. Prying wouldn't change his path and she wasn’t going to try to hold him back. That was exactly why she’d brought her doctor’s bag in the first place. Because, just like him, she was set on keeping her promises.

“Absolutely gorgeous.” The way he spoke about horses said a lot about himself, whether he realized or not. His comment about the fools holding the reins drew a soft hum of agreement from her. "Power corrupts," she said quietly, eyes still tracking the lead horse. “I just hope they’ll treat them right even if they don’t win.”

When he mentioned his bet, a genuine laugh escaped her, bright and unexpected amidst the track’s din. "An Irishman without a wager is like a stethoscope without earpieces," Leyla teased, echoing his earlier sentiment. "Utterly pointless." She bumped his arm lightly with her own. "So? Let me guess, you bet on the underdog. The one everyone’s written off?”

For a brief moment, they simply stood there in comforting silence, just watching the race like two ordinary people living in the moment. “I wish. But I never learned it properly. My parents couldn’t afford it, so it always just remained a little girls dream.”

Her eyes glanced sideways to meet his gaze once more. “What about you?”

“Don’t go handing out compliments like that,” he muttered, more gruffly than he meant to. “You’ll ruin my reputation.” Honor. That was a word that sat strange in his mouth these days. Once upon a time, it might’ve meant something. Now it felt like a relic — one of those medals they’d pinned on boys too young to understand the weight of them.

“Corrupts or reveals,” he said quietly when she spoke of power. “Never sure which.” It was easier to keep his eyes on the track than to think too hard on that. Men didn’t change when handed the reins — they showed what had been there all along. And he’d seen enough of that truth to last a lifetime.

Her laugh at his wager remark drew a flicker of something real from him — amusement, reluctant but genuine. “Guilty,” he admitted, shifting the brim of his hat against the glare. “The long shot’s the only one worth betting on. Anyone can throw money at the favorite.” He didn’t add that maybe he liked backing something the world thought hopeless. Maybe he understood that too well. Also wasn't worth mentioning that Rileys had their minds set to make it so he wasn't quite the underdog some believed the horse to be.

When she spoke of childhood dreams, he glanced sidelong at her, brow lifting faintly. “Aye. That sounds about right.” The corners of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No horses in the smokey kitchens of West Belfast. Only thing I ever rode was a tram, and even that was a luxury.” He tipped his chin toward the track, watching the muscled bodies thunder past. “Beautiful beasts, but I’ll keep to the ground. I’ve no business on their backs — and they’ve no business tolerating the likes of me.”

It was as close as he’d get to admitting the truth — that they unsettled him, that their sheer power made something instinctive tighten in his chest. But fear wasn’t something he named out loud. Not ever.