Page 1 of Cryptic Curse (Bellamy Brothers #7)

HAWK

F ifteen Years Ago…

There is nothing more important than family. Remember that, Hawk.

I swear to God, if my father bludgeons those words into my brain one more time, I’m really going to become unhinged.

But at age twelve, I’ve been trained to say, “Yes, I understand, Dad.”

“It’s important that you always understand—he clears his throat, hiding his mouth—“that what I did was necessary.”

I nod. “Yes, I understand that.”

Even though I don’t.

Even though what he did lacks all understanding. All compassion. All goodness.

I look around my father’s home office in our sprawling house on Bellamy ranch.

His massive mahogany desk, his leather reclining chair, his four giant computer monitors.

Bookshelves are lined with tomes I’m sure he’s never read but look good.

They smell good too. I inhale the crisp scent of parchment and leather.

It does nothing to soothe me.

What happened wasn’t right.

I don’t like when things aren’t right.

My brother Falcon tells me I need to be more realistic and less idealistic. The world is a complicated, messy place.

But why should I sacrifice my own standards? Why should I just accept injustice in the world?

My father drones on. “It was necessary to protect your mother. She could’ve been violated. Or even killed. Same for your sisters.”

I gulp down the lump in my throat. If that’s truly the case—though I don’t believe it is—then I do understand. My twin sisters are only thirteen, a year older than I am. And my mother…

She and I have a complicated relationship. I love her, and I certainly wouldn’t want to see her raped or murdered. The thought of it makes me want to puke.

Suffice it to say that I’m pretty sure I’m her least favorite child of the five of us. Her favorite is my younger brother Eagle, the baby. Followed by Raven, my sister who is the most like her. The other, Robin, prefers to hang out with my brothers and me, doing boy stuff.

“It was necessary to keep you and your brothers from being killed in your sleep,” Dad says.

I nod for the third time. And I repeat myself. “Yes, Dad, I understand.”

My father threads his fingers through his blond hair.

It’s beginning to gray—just a touch of silver around his temples.

Then he looks at me with those blue eyes that are so like my own.

I’m the only one of five who inherited them.

My brothers and sisters all have dark-brown eyes, like our mother.

We all share her darker skin from her Mexican heritage.

So as I stand, looking at my fair-skinned father, I focus on his eyes. The eyes he gave me.

Only me.

And I try to find something in common with him other than the one feature we share.

Something.

Anything.

But I can’t.

How could he do what he did?

Though I’ve repeated the mantra— Yes, Dad, I understand— I don’t understand. No rational person could.

“I’m sorry, Hawk,” he finally says.

My eyes go wide.

Did I truly hear the words?

I’m sorry, Hawk.

I didn’t know Austin Bellamy was ever sorry about anything.

Of course, when you shoot one of your own children, you probably should be fucking sorry.