Page 1 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

R ory

Belfast, Northern Ireland - One Year Ago

Deep crimson blood soaks the lace of my beautiful white dress.

Not my blood. Yet.

The wind howls around me, yanking my veil into the air like a ghost that refuses to let go.

My bare feet slap across the wet cobblestone as I run, the gorgeous, bejeweled heels tossed into the bushes and the hem of the once pristine gown— my wedding gown —tangled around my legs like a snare.

I stumble, catch myself on a rusted gate, and keep moving. I can’t stop. If I stop, I die.

Behind me, the church bells ring out across the city, mocking me. They were supposed to signal a union between two great clans. Instead, now they chime for my new freedom, my heartbeats echoing the shrill clangs.

“Brigid!”

His voice echoes off the alley walls, low and vicious. Ice ripples through my veins. Conall. The Butcher of Belfast. The man I was supposed to marry. The man my father practically sold me to.

“Brigid, there’s nowhere you can run where I won’t find you!”

I grit my teeth and push harder, dodging bins, slipping past the pub I used to sneak into with Maeve when we were stupid teenagers who thought lipstick and whiskey could fix anything. But there’s no fixing this. No hiding from what I’ve done.

Because back in that church on that marble aisle in the eyes of God and both our families, I didn’t say I do.

I said go fuck yourself.

Then I drove my father’s dagger I had hidden beneath the tulle skirts of my gown into Conall’s thigh and ran.

Blood splattered across the glittering corset of my dress, the look of pure wrath on my fiancé’s face permanently carved into my mind. Everyone had been so stunned no one moved. Not a single guard raced after me.

But I know my luck won’t last for long. So I push myself harder, my lungs screaming. My chest burns. Almost there.

My hands are slick with rain, or blood, or both. My bouquet lies in a pool of crimson somewhere behind me, a broken mess of fire lilies crushed beneath a ruthless man’s boot. Just like they thought they could crush me.

Not today. Not ever.

The moment my father, Cormac O’Shea, sold me to his long-time rival, the Quinlan family, I vowed to escape. I never thought I’d last this long. But today was my last chance.

A black car roars into the street ahead, and my heart leaps up my throat. I dart down another alley, veering into a narrow path I remember from childhood. I used to come here to hide from my brothers. Funny how little has changed.

Except now, if they find me, they’ll drag me back. Or worse, they’ll kill me themselves for dishonoring both the O’Shea’s and Quinlan’s in one rash moment.

I choke on a sob and keep going, holding up the trailing skirts of my soaking gown.

My dress tears. My foot slips. My knee hits stone, sharp, wet and unforgiving. Shite ! I scream through clenched teeth, push myself up, and crawl until I can stand again. Sweeping damp locks of fiery red hair behind my ears, I force my weary legs to keep moving.

You don’t get to stop. You don’t get to cry. You chose this.

And I did.

I chose freedom.

I chose me.

Just ahead I can make out the butcher shop. The one Da used to drag me to as a child. I hated it. Hated seeing the carcasses strung up, despised the scent of fresh blood lingering in the air. Squeezing my eyes closed to chase away the memories, I sprint the final few steps.

A cargo van is waiting behind the butcher shop, exactly where Maeve said it would be.

I never would have pulled this off without her.

I only hope no one finds out my best friend had anything to do with my disappearance or there would be hell to pay.

Because Maeve isn’t only my best friend, she’s also Conall’s sister.

The van’s headlights flash once, then again, drawing my dismal thoughts to the present. I race across the cobblestones, nearly collapsing as the back door opens and strong hands drag me inside.

“You cut it close, lass,” the driver mutters in that thick Mayo accent.

I slam the door shut behind me, heart racing, gown drenched, and hands trembling.

“I did it,” I whisper as I tear off the sopping wet veil.

“From what Brian tells me, you stabbed him pretty good.” At least all those years of medical training went to good use.

The thought is fleeting as I catch a glint of something in his eye, pride, maybe?

Funny, that a stranger could give me something I never felt from my own father.

“Whether he bleeds out or not, that’s his problem now. ”

At least it slowed him down and the spray of blood caused enough of a commotion to keep his guards busy. I nod quickly and sit back in the seat, trying not to focus on the deep ruby splotches across the white lace. I can’t stop shaking.

What if I didn’t stab him deep enough? What if he comes after me?

The van pulls away, and I cock my head over my shoulder through the rear windshield. And everything I’ve ever known disappears into the Belfast rain.