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“Go ahead,” the man says, smiling, and gestures. “Dig in. I cooked it myself. Irish stew, but with some contemporary twists. The original stew doesn’t call for much in the way of seasoning, just some salt and pepper, and that’s it. But I add ginger and garlic, some wine, a few other interesting spices. I hope you enjoy.” He grins and takes a slurping bite.
I grab my bowl, pick up a spoon, break off a piece of bread, and eat.
It’s delicious. One of the most complex things I’ve ever tasted before. He watches me as first, but soon he’s digging in too, satisfied that I’m enjoying myself and not paying attention to anything around him. I palm the knife and slide it under my thigh, not sure what I plan on doing with it, but I want to have something just in case. Once that’s done, I pay attention to the meal, and make little happy sounds as I shovel it down. He grins at me and winks. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, it’s very good.” And I really mean it—I spoon the stew in with gusto, and when the filling is done, I use the incredible bread to soak up the rest of the gravy.
When we’re finished, he shifts the tray to the side, and sighs with contentment. I’m stuffed to the brim and lean back against the headboard, eyeing the man warily. All during our silent feasting, he barely glanced in my direction.
“I suppose your mother told you about me then.” He looks almost shy, glancing up at me through dark lashes.
It strikes me suddenly. His name flashes into my mind, and his relationship to me is like a thunderbolt in my chest.
Ronan O’Shea, my father.
“You’re him,” I say, not able to form a more coherent thought. This is my father, my biological father anyway. I come from this man, share this man’s genetic material. Something of what I am is also him.
“I’m him. Your father, I suppose.” He looks sheepish, like a kind old man. Rough around the edges, but his eyes seem to sparkle with an internal energy.
“Not my father,” I say, looking away toward the window, unable to meet that gaze. The eyes of the man that never raised me. My own eyes. “You gave that title up a long time ago.”
“Would it help if I said that I didn’t know about you until you were much older and it was far too late?”
“I don’t think anything would help right now, except maybe if you let me out.”
He laughs and nods to himself. “I suppose that would, but you know I can’t. You’re my daughter, but you’re also not my daughter, and my actual son would be very displeased if I release you from captivity. Sorry to say, but you’re still stuck here, Mirella. For now, at least.”
“What do you want from me? Are you here to try to convince me to join the O’Shea clan too?”
“Oh, no, I won’t waste my time on that. Would it work if I tried?”
I shake my head. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Then I won’t bother. I don’t want to get involved in all that unpleasantness. You’re my blood and my kin, and I’m not sure when we’ll get another chance to meet. I wanted to feed you, get a look at you, and see how your mother did in raising you.”
“And? How’d she do?”
He tilts his head and a massive smile breaks across his face. “Admirably.”
I let that linger. My father—Ronan O’Shea, not father, never that—watches me curiously. Something in my chest shifts, and a deep, horrible sadness washes over me as I begin to wonder what my life would’ve been like with this man in it. Would I have ended up here, in this room? Would my mother have been so lonely, and poor, and stressed, and angry? If this were my father, could I have been happy?
Would I have ever met Fynn?
So many paths we never took. I wonder what my dad, my actual dad, would think of this. I can imagine he’d be angry that this man would talk to me like I’m related to him in any way when Genaro was the one that stuck around—for a while, anyway.
Tears fill my eyes. The pattern in my life is sickeningly clear. The men that love me eventually leave. I’ve had two fathers, but neither of them cared enough to be in my life, and now it’s like I doubt I’ll ever have a real connection. Except there’s a chance out there, back at Villa Bruno with Fynn, a chance at having that love I desperately crave, a chance at something terrifying but good, and instead I’m stuck here in this room.
Ronan sighs and shakes his head as the tears spill down my cheeks. “Oh, love, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he coos gently. “I know things are hard for you right now. I’m sure you’re scared and you want to go home. But I promise, Cillian’s not going to hurt you. You’re his sister.”
