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“A chuisle. My pulse. My reason to breathe. Will you make me a semi-honest man this weekend and become Mrs O’Sullivan?” He blinked up at me, and that damn dimple popped out.
I smiled at him, and genuine happiness burst across my chest for the first time since I had found out about my father.
“Yes.”
He grabbed me with his good arm, twirling me around. The dogs barked, and I giggled. He slid me down his front and kissed me deeply.
“No more talk of having no choice, a chuisle. You are my queen.”
“I love you,” I said, and I meant it.
It didn’t matter who my father was or what happened in the past. My mamá loved me and tried to protect me in her own way. I had survived alone for a long time, but now I had Sean. All that mattered was building our lives together, and I’d make some red cards to ensure he stayed in line.
34
Amy’s hair fanned the pillows, and her face finally looked relaxed in sleep. Her words earlier nearly broke me. Hearing her say she had no choice but to marry me. It flashed me back to Ma, and all the work I’d done to avoid becoming my father came crashing down. I was a ruthless bastard who called the shots and backed them up with unilateral actions. I realised I’d pushed Loch away and left Amy feeling trapped. The jealous, possessive beast inside my chest wasn’t going anywhere, but I could curb the ruthless decision-making when it came to her.
I leaned back against the headboard, too wired to sleep. My shoulder was aching again like a bitch. Dr Ali had re-sutured it and had me on a course of antibiotics. Fuck knows where Cian’s dirty finger had been.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Unknown: Meet me in the library
Adrenaline hit my senses. I grabbed my gun and pulled on my boxers. In seconds, I was outside the library, staring at a blank video feed on my phone. The screen should have shown me the interior, but it just showed me fuzz. I cracked the door open. A figure sat in the shadows of the stacks.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked, despite my suspicions.
“You know who I am.” His voice was smooth and accentless.
“How did you get into my home?”
He leaned forward into a pool of light from the desk lamp. His dark, jaw-length hair fell into his face, but his light blue-green eyes stopped me in my tracks.
“I’ve got Ma’s eyes,” he said, answering my unvoiced thought.
He spread his tattoo-covered hands out, showing he held no weapon.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. I’ve imagined what we might talk about so many times. You’ve done impressive things, brother.”
Denial crowded my head just as surely as certainty rang through me.
“Why should I believe you?”
He stood, and I trained my gun on him. He raised his hands again and slowly turned and lifted his shirt. A large brown birthmark spanned his left flank.
It was shaped exactly as Ma described the “curse mark.” She used to cry about how her boy was marked for death before he was even born.
“There’s a folder on the desk with a selection of evidence. I don’t expect you to believe me.”
“How did you survive as a baby when they declared you were dead?”
“I wasn’t breathing at first, and Connall ordered me disposed of. They took me away, but a nurse noticed I’d begun breathing. She stole me from the hospital and sold me on.”
Sold him on? The fuck?
“Where did you grow up?”
“In a training orphanage in bumfuck nowhere until they moved me to Europe.”
