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Looking down at him, I damn near felt sorry for him. For as long as I could remember, he’d been driven by his own darkness. What a shitty existence that must be.
Slit his throat; do the world a fucking favor.
Murder in a church was one hell of a sin, but I didn’t give a shit. He had it coming. Because of him, I’d lost the one good thing I’d ever had. And he was going to pay the motherfucking penance.
But no sooner had I taken a firm hold of my blade than a hand grabbed my shoulder. I swung around, ready to kill whoever it was, because this was fucking important: the world would be a far better place without my brother in it. If I swung from the gallows for it, then so fucking be it.
It was my father.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice hard but sympathetic, looking at me, then the blade, then back at me again.
It took me a second to see through the crystalline murderous rage that stood between me and everything else. But once I did, I saw my dad’s kind eyes there, pleading with me.
There was no plea that could make any of this right. I shook my head slowly.
“He had you prisoner in your own home, Dad. He tried to have me killed. I don’t have a fucking choice.”
“You do,” he said. “It doesn’t feel like it now, but you do have a choice.” With one hand, he took hold of the blade, sharp edge away from his palm. With the other hand, he slowly pried my fingers from the hilt. Once he’d disarmed me, my father sighed heavily, sitting down slowly on the nearby pew. He looked older and more tired than I’d ever seen him. Carefully, he closed the switchblade, palming it and looking up at me once again. “I will not let whatever poison is inside him also end up killing you.”
It was too fucking late for that. I knelt down and picked up the ring I’d given her, which was now smudged with her father’s blood.
“Losing her is what’s going to kill me. She’s the only thing that matters.”
My father nodded sadly, then contemplated the switchblade in his palm.
“Go, my boy. Now. And get away from this place. Please.”
Closing my eyes, I ground my teeth, seething with overpowering rage. And then stormed from the cathedral without another word.* * *I rode recklessly fast back to the manor house, half-blind with whipping snow squalls. I didn’t slow down, not even on the cliff-side paths, slippery with ice.
If I die now, then let death come, I thought to myself as Vela careened wildly, nearly losing her footing on the slick, loose shards of shale on the cliff’s edge.
If I couldn’t have Valeria, I didn’t care what happened to me. Live, die. I don’t give a fuck. None of it mattered. She was heaven itself. Imagining a life without her was pure hell.
Before I knew it, though, Vela was thundering down the drive to the manor house. I might want to escape my pain, but my mare was having none of it, and she skidded to a stop right in front of the front steps. She damn near threw me off of her, and she backed away from me angrily, wild eyed and scared.
You bastard, she seemed to say, tossing her head and stamping her front feet. How dare you take your shit out on me?
True enough. Inhaling hard, I steadied myself to keep her calm, which worked just long enough for me to get the saddle off of her back and the bit out of her mouth. I settled her in her stall with fresh hay and water.
“None of this is your fault. I’m sorry if I was hard on you. Rest now…”
With that, I left her safe and secure, making my way in a blind rage back to the house.
Once inside, I went straight for the library. The blanket draped over the sofa still showed where Valeria had sat—the impression of her fucking voluptuous hips, the narrow curve of her waist. Angrily, I kicked off my boots and ripped off my jacket, letting them fall in a dirty pile on the expensive rug.
I moved to rip off my bloodstained shirt as well, so that I could get a look at my wounds, but the fabric had stuck firmly to the bloody gash. I kept my head and teased the fabric off the open gunshot wound, a quarter-inch at a time.
Grimacing, I looked down. I’d been really fucking lucky. It was a damned good thing my brother employed such stupid pieces of shit as his hired muscle.
The bullet had grazed my left trapezius, halfway between my neck and my shoulder. A handful of inches lower, and it would’ve been a kill shot, straight through the heart.
