Page 9 of Morally Black Betrothal

At meeting you?I wanted to ask.

“How do you know?” I wondered instead. “Existing in the same room as a stranger isn’t the same as actually finding your parent on the edge of death. You’re an accessory. A pretty flower arrangement at the funeral.”

I was being an asshole. I was always an asshole. But in this case, it was the only way to deal with the gnawing ache in my chest that gripped me every time I looked at my father’s nearly lifeless body.

Simone turned back to me without a shred of anger or frustration. Her eyes glowed with compassion, a calm blue ocean. I wanted to dive in.

I had a sudden feeling that if I did, they would wash away every sin I’d ever committed. Like maybe they’d wash away my whole life if I wanted.

It was an alarming possibility. And not completely unwanted.

What. The.Fuck?

“My mother died in this hospital,” she informed me, but somehow without the bitterness I would have expected. “I know exactly what it’s like.”

Silence yawned between us. And an actual apology played over my lips. Me, the Heartless Heretic. The man whoneverapologized for anything. Wanted to say sorry to this wisp of a human.

But before I could, Simone extended her hand again. Just a little. A meek offering, if it was anything at all.

Feeling like I was outside of my own body, I let her squeeze my suddenly clumsy paw. Electricity flew up my arm, not as a shock, but a gentle glow. Like the kindness in this girl flowed like a current right into me.

She smiled again, impossibly sweet. A tiny fissure that threatened to send a crack through my stony heart.

I took my hand back and stepped away before I ended up on a table just like my old man. “All right, then.”

Simone’s hand twitched by her side. “Anytime you need a hand to hold, that’s what I’m here for, Mister…”

I cleared my throat. “Black.” For the first time, I hated saying it. For some reason, I didn’t want to be The Black Prince with this one. Even if I never saw her again. “You can call me Brendan.”

Simone’s eyes sparkled like light blinking off waves at sunset. “It’s nice to meet you, Brendan. Would you like me to stay with you?”

I opened my mouth to tell her yes. More than yes. That something in her guileless expression made me feel more than just the cold, calculating instincts I’d sharpened over the last four decades. That, like a brand-new addict, I wanted—no,needed—another hit of whatever she was offering.

I was no better than the junkies who used to line the streets of the old neighborhood. Just as bad as the addicts who would line up to place their bets with their bookie. My father.

But before I could manage so much as a simple, “Sure,” we were interrupted by a loud voice that I knew all too well.

“What the fuck is going on? What happened to Dad?”

And just like that, whatever spell this pretty little witch had cast was gone. I straightened, allowed the realities of my life to fall back over my shoulders like a mantle while the girl slipped quietly away.

“Owen,” I greeted my brother as he was followed into the room by two others. “Ronan. Liam. Where the fuck have you been?”

3

ENTER THE CIRCUS

Brendan

They tumbled like clowns from a car, into a room that was plainly too small for four men who all stood well over six feet tall.

Owen and Ronan were my younger brothers, and Liam might as well have been, considering we’d grown up together and Dad was basically his surrogate father (if you could call yelling and telling him he was a disappointment “fathering”).

The only one still missing was Shea, our baby sister. She was probably on her way with her mother, Violeta.

Most of the Black children, biological or not, looked alike. Ronan, Shea, and I shared the same fair complexions, same slightly crooked noses and carved cheeks, same shade of dark chestnut hair touched with red. Even Liam’s hair and height made him look like he was one of us.

We were all as dark-hearted as our name, but Owen was the only one who looked the part with black hair, black clothes, black mood. The asshole thought he was Johnny Cash. Though he wasn’t the only child of Niall Black to have a different motherfrom Ronan and me (Shea was the product of Dad’s third marriage), Owen acted like he was the lone wolf.