by Fox, Nicole
I’ve got the knife and then—shit!—it falls from my trembling hands.
Thump-thump-thump. He’s almost here.
Rounding the corner, just as I drop to my knees and pick it up—
He’s two steps away, thump-thu—
I get my hands on the knife, stand, and brandish it between us.
“Back the fuck up,” I seethe. I’m naked as the day I was born and trembling like a leaf.
But there’s no mistaking the venom in my voice.
Tristan pauses. Considers the situation. All the alcohol he’s had to drink isn’t helping him think any faster, but eventually, he decides it’s not worth the trouble anymore.
His pathetic, soft dick still hangs like a tiny noodle between his legs.
“You belong to me,” he whispers in a low, menacing tone. “You’re my little whore, Saoirse Rearden. I branded you with my name. I fucking own you. And you know that, don’t you?”
This is part of the humiliation.
This is my life.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I whisper.
He laughs. Cackles like a fucking loon.
Then, shrugging, he hikes his pants back up, tucks himself away, and leaves without another word.
Three seconds later, I hear the front door slam.
He’s gone.
I go back to the living room and collapse naked and trembling on the sofa. I wrap my arms around my body and hug myself until the tears dry up on my face.
I can’t keep doing this.
I can’t keep doing this.
The thought rings in my ears until I finally start to pay attention.
I’m thirty years old.
I’ve been with Tristan for twelve.
I’ve been miserable for almost as long as I can remember.
And when have I ever been happy? Truly, peacefully, wholly happy?
The answer comes to me immediately. I don’t even have to think about it.
One night, twelve years ago.
Because of a boy with messy blond hair and a devil-may-care smile.
A boy who promised me freedom and happiness.
A boy who tried to keep his word.
I was the one who sent him away.
I was the one who turned him down.
Now, he’s gone. Long gone. But I’m still here. Trying desperately to hold on to the last vestiges of who I used to be.
Slowly, I force myself up to my feet and pull my clothes back on. I go to the bedroom and lie down to stare at the ceiling, wondering where Cillian is right now.
Is he happy?
Is he free?
Does he still think of me?
No. Of course not.
Why would he think of the girl that turned him away at her door like he meant nothing?
I don’t deserve Cillian O’Sullivan.
But maybe I still deserve a second chance at happiness. I just have to make the decision. A decision I should have made a long time ago.
Immediately, my thoughts flick to Pa. Guilt rises, but I squelch it down.
Nobody ever said this was going to be easy. Choices must be made, and those choices will have consequences.
But I’ve spent most of my life looking after my father. It’s time that I live for myself now. It’s time I save myself before Tristan extinguishes the last embers of fire left inside me.
There won’t be a blue-eyed prince with a carefree smile to come rescue this damsel in distress.
This time, I’ve got to save myself.
23
Cillian
ONE YEAR SINCE THE ATTACK ON THE MOUNTAIN—THE HERNANDEZ FARM, MEXICO
“Finished?” calls Carla.
I squint down at her.
She’s grown a foot in the last year, but she’s still got the full-faced rosiness of youth. Gaspar hops around her heels, barking noisily.
He hates not being able to join me up here on the roof.
“Almost,” I shout back down. “Is lunch ready?”
“It’s been ready for half an hour,” she replies. “Come down now before it goes cold.”
The kid’s freaking bossy. That hasn’t changed since the day I woke up here, twelve months ago.
Fuck—has it really been that long?
I wipe the sweat from my brow and climb down the ladder resting against the west-facing wall. I’m almost done with the roof. Another hour of work at most, but I don’t want to miss lunch. My stomach’s already complaining.
A long-dormant memory shoots through my mind like a lightning bolt.
“Tá ocras fooking orm.”
Sean’s grimace.
Those eyebrows, bushy and serious…
“Nope,” I say out loud. I shake the memory away and climb down the ladder. When I get close enough, I skip the last few rungs in favor of jumping down onto the dry earth below. A cloud of dirt kicks up around me.
Carla takes a step back, wrinkling her nose and coughing at the dust.
“Let’s eat,” I announce, slapping my hands together.
We walk back to the main house together, with Gaspar bounding around between Carla and me.
As we approach, I spot Diego coming from the barn. He’s still got a limp after the accident in the winter. But he’s made a fuck-ton of progress in the last few months.
We both have.
Carla notices the direction of my gaze. “He’s been in there most of the morning trying to fix the broken pillar.”
“Jesus, your father’s stubborn,” I mutter. “He shouldn’t be taxing himself.”
“That’s what I said. He told me to mind my own business.”
“He is your business.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Any comeback?”
“He told me to stop spending so much time with you.” She grins.
I laugh. “Maybe he’s got a point.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Carla say forcefully. “You’re my best friend.”
My heart twists guiltily at her words. The kid’s been attached to me from day one. But it’s only lately that I’ve realized how big an issue that is.
I was never meant to stay here.
The process of healing had been a long one. Longer than I’d first assumed.
It took almost five full months before my body stopped hurting so much.
After that, it was re-training myself. Building up strength and muscle again. I had to re-learn shit that had always been second nature to me.
It wasn’t fucking fun. And I’m still a long way from whole.
But Diego and Carla have made it easier.
About seven months in, I started thinking about saying my goodbyes. Heading back to my own life.
I’d been with them way too fucking long already.
And then the winter accident happened.
It was a combination of things, just a perfect storm of terrible luck. A thunderstorm raging for almost three nights, a deteriorating rafter beam in the barn, and Diego’s stubborn insistence that he didn’t need help fixing it.
I’d been in the main house with Carla when the barn roof collapsed during the worst of the rain and lightning.
It had collapsed right on top of Diego while he was in there trying to calm the horses.
I’d managed to get him out of there, but his injuries were bad.
Not nearly as bad as what Budimir had left me with, of course. But bad enough that it would’ve been a death sentence for him and Carla alike if I wasn’t around to intervene.
After everything they’d done for me, it seemed like poor repayment to just turn my back on them and leave when they needed me most.
So I stayed.
I told myself it would only be a few extra days.
But days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into five more months.
And now, before I know it, it’s been a full year since Gaspar discovered me on death’s doorstep.
There are some days I actually enjoy this life. The simplicity of it. Working with the sun, sle
eping with the moon, toiling in the earth with my own two hands.
It keeps my mind off things.
Off the past. Off Artem and Esme. Off everything I’ve ever left behind.
But that’s not the point.
The point is that this isn’t my real life.
My real life is out there somewhere. Waiting for me.
Now, I just need to figure out why I’ve been so fucking reluctant to get back to it.
“Finished with the roof?” Diego asks as our paths intersect.
“Nearly. One more day should do it.”
He claps me on the shoulder and nods, satisfied.
We head inside the house together. Instantly, I’m hit by the smell of meat and potatoes. This is a carb-heavy family and I, for one, am fully fucking here for it.
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting around the table and Diego’s carving up sections of the chicken like it’s Thanksgiving dinner.
I tuck into the chicken just as Carla gets up and heads to the mantel over the couch.
“Escucha, chica,” Diego chides. “We’re sitting down to lunch.”
“Mama’s picture fell,” she explains somberly. She leans down, scoops the picture frame off the floor, and places it back in its spot with reverent hands.
Upright, the woman in the photograph smiles out at us. Dark-haired, pretty.
Carla places a delicate kiss on the frame. Then she comes back to the table and breaks off a leg of the chicken.
It took her months to open up to me about her mother.
Some people are so precious that the only way to preserve their memory is to not talk about them. As if, every time she shared a story, a little of it got sanded away. Lost in time.
I never would have understood that—before Saoirse.
She comes and sits back in her seat at the table, Gaspar curled at her feet. We eat in silence for a while.
“They’re having another farmer’s market in the valley soon,” Carla informs us. “We should rent out a stall.”
“That’s a good idea, mija,” Diego acknowledges.
“Cillian,” she says, “you’re gonna love the farmer’s market. It’s tons of fun. You meet so many cool people.”
“I’m sure. When is this thing?”
“In two months.”
The smile falters on my face. Both of them notice it.
“What?” Carla asks immediately.
“Carla…”
“You’ve been talking about leaving for months now,” she says impatiently. “I think it’s time to face the fact that you don’t really want to leave.”
I frown. Mostly because she’s partly right about that.
Way too smart for her own good.
“Carlita,” Diego says, a warning in his tone, “Cillian can leave whenever he wants to.”
“But he belongs here.”
The way she says it takes me off guard. Growing up, I always thought I belonged with my family in Ireland.
But then Da kicked me out of the family and I made my new home in L.A.
After that, I felt I belonged with Artem and the Bratva.
But then I had a near-death experience that’s taken me a year’s recovery time.
Now, I’m not so sure anymore. I don’t know where I belong.
“Carla—”
“Why do you want to leave at all?” she interrupts, whirling on me. “This is your home.”
Home.
Another word that’s unexpectedly triggering.
“Carla,” I say as gently as I can, “kiddo, I love it here. I love you. I love Gaspar. I even love your grumpy old man. But this isn’t my home.”
Her eyes go wide. I can see that I’ve hurt her, but I also need her to understand.
“I told you,” I continue, “I have a friend out there who needs me.”
“He’s managed to get through a year without you,” Carla points out. “So clearly, he doesn’t need you that bad.”
Damn, the kid has claws.
“Carla, basta! Cut it out,” Diego says firmly.
“It’s okay,” I say, stopping him from bringing down the axe.
He never lets Carla get away with mouthing off for too long. Half of her so-called “chores” began as punishments handed down after she’d been snarky or deliberately disobedient.
“I know it seems like I’ve been dragging my feet on this. And maybe I have been because I know I’ll miss you guys a lot—”
“Then don’t go,” she cuts in. “If you don’t go, you won’t have to miss us.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I have someone waiting for me.”
“Who?”
“Artem,” I say out loud.
And that’s true. Partly true, at least.
But the name I’m thinking in my heart is Saoirse.
Why, though? Why did my thoughts even go there?
It’s been twelve—no, almost thirteen fucking years. Of course she isn’t waiting for me.
She never was.
But my thoughts have started shifting over the last year. That’s another thing that months of bed rest, a change of scenery, and a fuck-ton of alone time will do to you.
There’s been sufficient time for self-reflection. Time to go back, comb through your past, and dig up memories that you thought you’d buried.
I’ve done exactly that.
And it’s revealed shit that I hoped never to have to re-live again.
It’s forced me back into the shoes of that naïve eighteen-year-old who thought he was invincible because he had a powerful last name and a swagger in his step.
“He doesn’t need you,” Carla snaps at me, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I do. Papa does.”
“Carla, I said that’s enough!” Diego says, raising his voice. “Cillian stayed because of my accident. He stayed so that he could help us out on the farm. He didn’t stay because he wanted to. It would be selfish of us to keep him here any longer.”
I’m a little surprised. Diego’s usually a man of few words.
But based on what he just said, it appears he’s a sentimental one, too.
“Hey, I do want to stay,” I say firmly. “I do want to help. It’s just… time for me to go.”
“I hate you!” Carla bursts. “I hate you both.”
Then she pushes up from the table, upending her chair in the process. She bolts out of the house with Gaspar hot on her heels.
Diego sighs and pushes his food around on his plate. For a while, there’s only the clink and clack of cutlery as we both fumble for something to say.
“Sorry,” I offer eventually.
“Don’t be,” Diego mumbles. “She’s got to face it.”
Now that we’re talking about it, I figure we might as well see this conversation through.
“Diego, if you need me to stay—”
“I don’t,” he says gruffly. Then he clears his throat. “I appreciate you even offering. But I’m good now.”
“Okay then.”
“Have you thought about when?”
“Once I finish the roof and repair the fence out back,” I tell him. “A couple of days from now, probably.”
He nods as though he was expecting exactly that.
Then he gets to his feet and heads to the pantry. When he returns, he’s got an old bottle of scotch with him.
My eyes go wide. “Diego, you bastard!” I crow. “I knew you had a stash back there. Been holding out on me for a year.”
He laughs. “Now that you’re leaving, I don’t mind you knowing about it. You woulda drank me out of house and home if I’d told you earlier.”
“Asshole.”
He chuckles under his breath as he pours me a glass. “It’s been a fucking year,” he breathes.
He never swears. But I can tell he needs to right now.
I accept the glass of scotch and we clink our glasses together. “To your health,” I say.
“To your… next adventure,” Diego retorts.
/>
I smile. “My next adventure.” I like the sound of that.
“Do you know where you’ll go?”
Ah, there it is. The big question.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t?”
Diego laughs. “Of course. You’re confused—that much is clear.”
I snort with laughter. “And here I thought I was fooling you.”
“Nothing gets past me, cabrón.”
I sigh. “Artem’s been my family for my whole adult life,” I admit. “I’ve made L.A. my home…”
“But?”
I glance out towards the expanse of the farm I can see through the open door. “But it’s not really my true home. I left my true home a long time ago.”
“Ireland.”
“Yeah. And these last few months, I’ve been thinking a lot about Dublin,” I admit. “Been thinking about all the people I was forced to leave behind. I haven’t spoken to my mother in years. Or to Kian.”
“Kian?”
“My younger brother,” I explain. “Then there’s my older brother, too. I’ve lost touch with all of them. Maybe because maintaining contact was… hard.”
“I can understand that.”
“I almost died, Diego,” I say quietly. “The only reason I survived at all was because of you and Carla. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance at and life and…”
“You’re re-thinking your priorities.”
“Exactly.”
He nods wisely and takes a sip of his drink. “You don’t really want to go back to Los Angeles, do you?”
“Carla’s right,” I say. “I don’t think Artem needs me. He’s always been strong and resourceful. And honestly, I doubt I’d be much help to him. I need to get my shit together first. That’s if I could even find him, which has been hard to do.”
That’s true enough. With Budimir running the show in Los Angeles, Artem can’t exactly put out a beacon and a calling card.
And I’m mired in the middle of the mountains of western Mexico with few resources.
I’ve been staying here in part because no one knows I’m here. It keeps me alive, out of Budimir’s line of sight. I hope Artem and Esme are doing the same.
Still, he’s at least partially an excuse. A thing I tell myself so I can make this weird little timeout from my life stretch on just a tiny bit longer.
“Does that mean you’re going back to Dublin?” Diego inquires.
