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“Bout ye, son? Are ye hungry? I’ve left ya some tea.”
It takes all my willpower not to wrap the hose around his fucking neck and choke the life from him. But I can’t. Until I know where Babydoll is, I’m his fucking dog.
“Don’t call me son,” I firmly reply, walking past him into his gaff. “And I don’t want any fucking dinner.”
When I smell the unmistakable fragrance of a beef stew, I shrug out of my jacket, unbelieving he was actually serious about tea. I shouldn’t be, however. This is all a big game to him. As he sees it, this is his time for payback. I fucked up his plans, and now he intends on returning the favor by fucking up my life.
I reach for the bottle of whiskey and pour myself a large glass. But it’ll never be enough to fill this void.
When Sean enters and sees me drinking, he shakes his head. “I’m worried ’bout yer drinkin’.”
Throwing back the contents, I pour myself another glass. “We’re not doin’ this,” I state, shaking my head, incredulous.
“Doin’ what?” He has the gall to ask.
“Doin’ this concerned father act. In case y’ve forgotten, I’m here ’cause I have no other choice.”
“No one is holdin’ ya prisoner,” he counters, washing his hands in the sink. “Ya can leave any time ya want.”
Gripping the glass in my hand, I measure my breaths before I impale it into his jugular. “I do that and what happens to Cami? Where is she? What have ya done with her?”
Sean continues lathering his hands with soap, ignoring me.
“I’ve done what ya wanted. I promised my loyalty to ya. What else do ya want me to fucking do?” I exclaim, my temper intensifying.
Sean calmly turns off the taps and dries his hands on a tea towel. It’s a floral pattern, for fuck’s sake. This would be laughable if not for the fact he is holding the woman I love prisoner. Or, so I hope.
“Yer word means nothin’ to me, cub. Ya proved that when ya tried to double-cross me. But in time, if you prove yer loyalty, y’ll get what ya want.”
What I want is his head.
“I’ve done ya a favor. In time, y’ll see Rory—”
Slamming my glass onto the kitchen counter, I shatter it in my hand. “Don’tcha ever speak his name. Don’t ever,” I warn dangerously low.
The hot sensation and thedrip…drip…driponto the counter confirms I’ve cut my hand, but the blood is a reminder I’m still alive.
“He was a traitor, Puck,” he says, not knowing when to shut his mouth. “He was the one who betrayed ye. He was given a choice. I never forced his hand. Just how no one forced yours when ya shot him right between the eyes.”
“Please don’t kill me.”
Rory’s words haunt me every single day. When I try to sleep, those words rob me of any comfort because I don’t deserve any. I killed my best friend in cold blood. He was unarmed, and I fucking shot him like a dog.
I am a fucking murderer. Aye, I’ve killed before, but Rory’s death is the only one for which I have any remorse.
“Y’ll see I’m not the enemy here,” he says, which has a crazed laugh leaving me.
“That’s all I fucking see,” I reply, reaching for the tea towel and wrapping it around my hand. “What the fuck is wrong with ya? We are not friends. We are enemies. And I would happily use yer wee spatula over there to carve out yer tongue.”
I understand he wants to appear like every Joe Bloggs, but his kitchen looks like something out of an Ulster Tatler Interiors magazine. It sickens me.
His mouth twitches. He finds this fucking hilarious. “I understand yer mad. But we wouldn’t be here if ya didn’t try to kill me every chance ya got.”
“You killed my ma,” I snarl, eyeing him fiercely. “And Connor. Ya wanted to steal my legacy. I spent ten years in prison because of ye. Ya got Ethan hooked on drugs. Ya beat up Hannah. Ya kidnapped Eva and Ethan. And y’ve got my fucking girl.
“Of course, I want to kill ya. Are ye fucking thick?”
Sean nods, accepting my slurs because he can’t deny them. “In time—”
