Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “Me?” I shook my head. “I don’t understand, Branwell. I’m the one who doesn’t . . .” The adoration blazing from his eyes stopped me.

  He bent forward, kissing my forehead. “Never apologize for how you feel about me.” My nose. Kiss. “Because I’ll never apologize for how I feel about you.” Cheek. Kiss. “Never.” Chin. Kiss.

  Each word was a shooting star blazing through my heart. I trembled, fisting my hands into his shirt. My lungs fighting to get enough air.

  He pulled back. Met my eyes squarely with his. “I love you”—a choked gasp—“you, Lucy Miranda Snow. I love . . .” He gave a harsh laugh. “I love everything about you. I love the way your smile lights up a room. I love how you meet each day with a bounding optimism. I love how you love others. How you always think outside yourself—”

  “Branwell, darling, you don’t have to say these things—”

  “Stop.” He gave me a small shake. “You don’t understand. I. Love. You. I have always loved you. You say you fell in love with me at that coffee shop, but I’m here to tell you, I fell first.”

  I gasped.

  No. Impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  “I saw you before you saw me. I chose to sit at that table with you because, even in that brief moment between seeing you and meeting you, I knew. You were it. You were my heart. You took a snapshot of it, and I haven’t gotten it back since.”

  “Branwell—” I instantly stepped closer, pulling myself up with his shirt, mouth reaching for his.

  “Wait. Let me finish.” He pressed his forehead against mine. “If you kiss me, I won’t get another word out for a very long time.”

  I snorted. “That’s sorta the point.”

  He laughed, short and pained. “Cara mia. Your love destroys me at the same time it heals. I have loved you for so many years. Watched you. Told myself over and over that you weren’t for me. But after yesterday . . . knowing you feel the same way. I couldn’t bear to have you think that today has been anything other than one of the best days of my life—”

  I kissed him.

  I popped on my tiptoes and covered his mouth with mine.

  It was too much. I couldn’t encompass everything he was saying. My brain had gone supernova.

  My mind couldn’t comprehend that the man I had admired and respected and adored more than any other returned the feeling. That just as long as I had been pining for him, he had been aching for me.

  We were adults. We had both been in relationships before.

  It should have been a controlled kiss. Finessed and refined.

  But we were too starved.

  Too long yearning for this and here and now.

  Too long believing this moment would never, ever be a reality.

  The kiss was anything but neat. Hungry. Ravenous.

  His arms banded around me, both hands buried in my hair. Tilting my head to give him better access to my mouth.

  He tasted like Branwell. Warm. Tender. Fierce.

  With each kiss, my heart soared.

  He. Loved. Me.

  My Branwell. He truly was mine.

  I tasted tears. Salty and perfect.

  His? Mine?

  I didn’t care.

  I was kissing him. His soft beard brushing my chin, tickling my nose.

  After a long while, I pulled back. Laughing. Joy lashing me like wildfire.

  I tucked my cheek against his, clutching his head with both hands.

  “Please tell me you can feel my happiness,” I murmured, rubbing my lips over that strip of skin on his cheek just above where his beard ended. “That you know how much I adore you.”

  His answer was a growled rumble and another kiss.

  Thoughts pounded, trying to get in.

  Insidious little buggers.

  Whispering that Tennyson would not be okay with this.

  That Branwell’s love for me did not exceed his love for his brother.

  That on the opposite side of the Joy of Kissing Branwell stood a Cliff of Despair—the one I would tumble down when he chose Tennyson over me.

  Was my current joy worth the pain of that fall?

  Foolish, foolish me.

  Because . . . it was.

  It absolutely was.

  Thirty Four

  Portland, Oregon

  Five years earlier

  Lucy

  Rain pattered through the trees, releasing the scent of pines and moss. I stood beneath my umbrella, nestled under the canopy of forest ringing the park, giving myself another five minutes—a stolen breathing space before hiking back up the hill.

  Judith had invited her clan home for Sunday dinner which meant laughter and teasing and amazing pot roast with gravy. It also meant keeping my mood super positive for Tennyson and not letting an ounce of anything Branwell slip through my defenses.

  Go me.

  “Hey.” A voice sounded through the hush.

  Thinking of which.

  Branwell emerged from the path behind me, rain slicking off his jacket, beard bunched inside his hood, hands in his pockets.

  “Hey.” I nodded back.

  He stopped next to me, close but not touching. It didn’t matter. The air buzzed, humming with the electricity of him.

  Tennyson had been strongly hinting lately, dropping words like ring and wedding into casual conversation. I was rapidly approaching a crossroads.

  “You good?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I moved my knees and feet, keeping myself warm. “Just needed a moment.”

  “Understood.”

  Of course he did. Branwell always understood. That was a huge part of the problem, I had come to realize.

  Tennyson needed me, which was nice and all. But there were expectations along with that need. A certain standard of emotional flatline I felt compelled to consistently meet. Not that Tennyson ever demanded it of me. It was more knowing that my steady presence was his lifeline, the living Prozac that kept him functional.

  Branwell, on the other hand, offered me unconditional acceptance. No expectations.

  With him I could just . . . be.

  Like now.

  Rain trilled on my umbrella, rustling through the trees. Soothing. Calming.

  “Take your time,” Branwell said, soft and patient. “I’ll walk you back up the hill when you’re ready.”

  Thirty Five

  Florence, Italy

  2016

  Lucy

  I woke the next morning to a text.

  Chiara.

  Come downstairs to the storefront when you wake up. I got something you’ll want to see.

  I replied and then slumped back against my pillow, letting the events of the previous day spin through my mind. Given everything that had gone down, it was a wonder I had slept at all.

  Grace weighed heavy on me. What had happened to my sweet little girl? Was this whole mess with Jack and Grace being wispy even related to her disappearance in the end? Or was it just a lingering . . . something coming from Gruncle Jack and his entanglement with Sofia D’Angelo? A misfire of the D’Angelo gift and completely unrelated to Grace in the end?

  Who knew.

  I simply wanted my Gracie back, safe and sound. I had to believe in the vision Tennyson had seen. I would go mad otherwise.

  As for Branwell . . . his confession the night before still felt like a fevered dream. That if I awoke enough to focus on it, it would all melt away.

  I wasn’t ready to jinx myself yet.

  Dragging my body out of bed, I showered and pulled on a strappy, white sundress with a thin aqua-blue cardigan and matching sandals. I was way too fair to get away with wearing sleeveless things in summer. My shoulders would fry no matter how much sunscreen I put on.

  Besides, the blue color looked good with my eyes, and I wanted to look pretty today. Something more than just jeans and a t-shirt.

  I replied to texts from my family. Jeff and Jen had made it to Abu Dhabi and were trying to get a flight into Florence, but no on
e had recently heard from them. We were all in wait-and-see mode.

  From there, I made my daily check-in with Inspector Paola who reiterated, again, that I needed to stay out of her way, or else . . .

  Got it.

  Too quickly, I reached the point in my day where I had to face last night. Or rather the hunky, huggable guy I had kissed into the early morning hours.

  Branwell . . .

  I bounded down the stairs and paused in front of his apartment door.

  How would he feel about me this morning? Had sleep and some space convinced him to reconsider his feelings for me? Or was he still firmly Team Lucy?

  Regardless, my heart triple-skipped and danced giddily around my chest at the prospect of seeing him.

  Why did life do this? Give me shocking heartache right along with unbelievable bliss?

  I had lost Grace but gained Branwell.

  He loved me.

  I loved him.

  We hadn’t really discussed much beyond that last night. Quite frankly, there had been very little talking going on at all. Obviously, at some point, we were going to have a conversation about us.

  But until then . . .

  I stood in front of his door like an insecure teenager, debating which of my instincts was the most lucid and rational.

  My primary impulse was to wrap myself around him like static cling, tell him how much I had missed him in the last eight hours and beg him to never let me go.

  Even I knew that one had ‘psycho girlfriend’ written all over it.

  Instinct number two said I should smile, flirt and act like we were an item.

  But, were we an item? Tennyson stood between us, solid as ever. There was no getting away from that history, and I would hate to make assumptions.

  So maybe I should act like we were friends until Branwell did something more than friends?

  My last option was to assume nothing and keep walking down the stairs.

  Hmmm. That sounded less fun.

  I was debating between those last two choices when Branwell decided for me and opened the door. Broad shoulders filling the doorway, hair and beard still damp from the shower.

  His eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Which was all I got out before he closed the distance between us, wrapped a hand around the nape of my neck and pulled me to him for a kiss.

  A decidedly thorough, possessive kind of kiss. A kiss that melted my bones and ended with me plastered against his chest.

  Well then.

  Maybe Option One hadn’t been such a crazy idea after all.

  “Good morning,” he murmured, pulling back to kiss my nose. “I missed you.”

  I laughed. Happiness bubbling through me. “I missed you too, love.”

  “Love,” he repeated, voice almost pained.

  Which resulted in another five minutes of kissing.

  Branwell finally dragged himself away, both of us breathing hard. He looked down at me, eyes full of such wonder. Not a single barrier between me and his soul.

  He tucked a curl behind my ear. Swallowed. “I know we’re going to have to talk about us sometime soon. But today—just for a few hours—I don’t want to think about future decisions.”

  “Amen.” I popped up, intending to give him one last lingering peck.

  Branwell had other ideas. My man could kiss.

  After another couple minutes, it was obvious we weren’t going to get anything done today if one of us didn’t take charge.

  “C’mon.” I tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the stairs. “Chiara said she had something.”

  We held hands until reaching the bottom of the stairs and the door to D’Angelo Enterprises. Instinctively, we both knew that Chiara and the rest of his family should not witness our mutual adoration of each other.

  One problem in a mountain of many when it came to anything permanent between Branwell and me.

  Branwell opened the door and motioned me through.

  The D’Angelo shop was typical of high-end antique stores. Marble statues stood on top of carved chests. Crystal goblets and priceless bowls were staged alongside tapestries and lace.

  Chiara was chatting with an older couple about the provenance of an oil painting, it seemed. She lifted her head when we walked through the door, interrupting her conversation.

  “I found something interesting in the family archives. I left it on the desk in the office for you,” she said, nodding toward the back of the store before turning her attention back to her customers.

  Giving his sister a ‘thank you’ wave, Branwell pulled me through a door and into the back office. I had never been this deep in the D’Angelo family affairs before.

  In retrospect, I realized I had no preconceived notion of what Branwell and Dante’s office space would be like. I guess I had just assumed it would be a utilitarian white box like most offices.

  I could not have been more wrong.

  Branwell pushed open a thick, wooden door and led me into an enormous, airy, light-filled space.

  Running the back length of the palazzo, five huge windows flanked the wall opposite the door, level with the parking courtyard. The ceiling soared overhead with dark, aged beams. Traces of frescoes peaked out here and there on the white-washed walls.

  The end of the room near the doorway held a wall of bookcases to the left and a large table-like desk strewn with papers, folders and several laptops. Farther down the room to the right, a sitting area featured heavy, masculine leather furniture angled toward a ginormous flatscreen TV.

  Yeah. I could live in this room.

  Branwell left the door open, Chiara’s voice drifting in. But he glanced around and sneakily landed a kiss on my neck—sending goosebumps skittering down my spine—before walking over to the table.

  Honestly.

  After this small taste of his love, how could I ever walk away from this man?

  Branwell picked up a plastic sleeve with a piece of paper inside it. I stopped next to him and slid my arm around his waist. He angled the letter for me to see too.

  Yellowed with age and ragged along one edge, the paper was clearly old. Spidery script flowed across its surface. The kind of handwriting with loops and curlicues that was hardly de rigueur anymore, making it hard to read.

  Though the fact it was written in Italian could also be a factor.

  Branwell scanned it, pointing a finger at the signature—a boldly scrawled Sofia.

  Ah.

  “It’s simply a letter to her uncle, telling him about some friends she visited and replying to his inquiry about her health. Polite. Normal. Nothing too telling.” He flipped the plastic over in his gloved hands, studying the name written on the back. “No date either, so who knows when exactly it was written.”

  I looked down, a sticky note lay on the table where the plastic sleeve had been. Chiara’s handwriting unmistakable.

  Still working on the empath thing. Family records don’t really breakdown the ‘gift’ into its component parts. It was just one mass of feeling, seeing and hearing to them. Understanding it all will take time, unfortunately.

  But this is what I have found out—

  Sofia D’Angelo married Antonio Perlucci in 1818. She died in childbirth in 1826 and is supposedly buried in the family chapel in Volterra (remind me to make a trip down there). I couldn’t find record of any other marriage for her. No mention anywhere of a Jack Knight-Snow.

  “So hard to know what happened two hundred years ago,” Branwell murmured, touching Chiara’s note.

  “That’s why we have you. Allow me.” I took the plastic from him and carefully pulled the fragile paper from the sleeve with my smaller, gloveless fingers, laying it on the table.

  “Read my mind, cara.” He grinned and hugged me, brief but greedy enough to send thrills tingling along my arms.

  Releasing me, he tugged off a glove and placed a single finger on the paper, eyes going unfocused, his head angled. Listening.

  H
e sat like that for several minutes.

  I stared at him the whole time. That strip of skin visible between his ear and shirt collar. The curl threatening to escape from his man bun. The tendons flexing across the back of his hand, skin so pale from lack of sun.

  Before last night, I would have looked away, watched him from the corner of my eye and pretended like my world didn’t start and stop with him.

  Today . . .

  I boldly drank him in.

  Branwell

  I tried not to let Lucy destroy my concentration, but emotions flooded me with every sound out of her mouth.

  Happiness. Joy. Love.

  So much love.

  It awed and humbled me. Nearly overwhelmed.

  Being loved by Lucy Snow . . . somehow it exceeded every fantasy.

  Guilt gnawed at the back of my mind, trying to work its way in. Reminders of Tennyson and his fragile emotional state. That finding out about me and Lucy could easily send him tumbling over the edge.

  Not yet, I pleaded. Just give me today.

  Just one day. Like Lucy had yesterday.

  One day of hope. One day of pretending this could be the rest of my life.

  I could block Tennyson; he would never know.

  Lucy stirred next to me, snapping me back into the present.

  Right. Focus.

  How did Sofia D’Angelo and the family curse play into the events surrounding Jack Knight-Snow?

  I shifted my finger on the parchment, sifting through the sounds. Voices trailed in and out, offering nothing relevant.

  And then . . .

  “. . . you quite done with your letter then, dearest?” An unknown woman in aristocratic Tuscan Italian.

  “Yes, Mamma. One more moment.” Sofia.

  A sigh. The creak of someone sitting on a bed.

  “You did not finish your meal again. You must eat more—”

  “I am fine.”

  “No, Sofia, you are not fine. You must let him go.”

  Silence. The scritch-scritch of pen on paper.

  “It is time to let the dead be . . . dead,” the woman continued.

  “A broken heart does not heal itself in a day, Mamma.”

  More silence.

  “It’s been a year, Sofia dear.” Words said so softly. “You need to live again.”