Page 71 of Brutal Vows

When Quinn reappears in the kitchen in a fresh shirt and says he’s ready to leave, I can’t look him in the eye. I just nod and keep rinsing dishes.

He stands there vibrating tension until he growls, “Any time this century.”

I turn off the water, dry my hands, and walk past him, out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my handbag, if that’s all right with you, Prince Charmless.”

He grumbles something under his breath that I ignore. Ten minutes later, we’re in his big black Escalade, headed into the city.

The silence in the car is deafening.

When I can’t take it anymore, I try to make polite conversation. “So where will you honeymoon?”

He looks at me as if he’s unfamiliar with the word.

“Don’t tell me you’re not taking her on a honeymoon!”

He glares at the windshield, gripping the steering wheel so hard, I’m sure he’s wishing it were my neck. Through clenched teeth, he says, “I really can’t wait until I never see you again.”

I stare at his stupid, handsome profile, forcing myself to refrain from dragging my nails down the side of his cheek. I don’t want Lili to have to look at his gouged face during her wedding vows.

“You should take her to Ireland,” I pronounce, then stare out the passenger window because I can’t look at him one second longer.

After a while, he says gruffly, “Why Ireland?”

Resisting the urge to make a crack about the joys of drunken pub yodeling, I say instead, “So she can see where you were born, Quinn. Get to know you better. You know, meet all your relatives from the motherland and whatnot.”

“I don’t have any relatives left in Ireland.”

The dark way he says it makes me glance over at him. His jaw is hard and his thunderclouds are gathering, but I have to ask.

“Because they’re all in the States now?”

“Because they’re all dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Don’t ask. Don’t say it, Reyna. Be smart and leave it alone.

Into my ambivalent silence, he says, “Aye, lass, all of them. And no, I don’t have anyone here, either.”

“So it’s just you?”

“Aye.”

“No parents? Siblings? Cousins? No one?”

“No one,” he repeats gruffly, then sends me a pointed look. “And that’s the truth.”

“You’re the last Quinn?”

“There are a million Quinns,” he says with a flick of his fingers. “Just not any I’m directly related to.” After a pregnant pause, he adds, “Which was the point.”

That sounds ominous. But he doesn’t offer any further explanation, so I say, “I don’t understand.”

He closes his eyes briefly, shakes his head as if he’s regretting the entire conversation, then heaves a sigh. “In the Old World, when someone really wants to send a message, they wipe out an entire family tree, top to bottom. Grandparents, parents, children, husbands, wives… every living generation related by blood or marriage to the one who caused the offense.”