Page 1 of Stolen Temptation (Irish Kings #3)

Kiara

Moonlight is my favorite.

Silver paint speckles the skin of my knuckles as I pinch a long, thin paintbrush between the thumb and index finger of my left hand.

With my other hand, I swipe at the sweat rimming my hairline.

Manhattan weather is usually cooler this time of year, but even with the windows open and a gentle breeze wafting in off the water, New York City’s hot as hell’s bells this September.

When sunlight streams through all the windows in my studio, I often feel like an ant roasting beneath a magnifying glass.

I don’t mind the heat, though. That’s a good thing, considering I haven’t managed to leave the De Luca estate since my father’s murder a few months ago. Building this place for my mother was the only good thing that man ever did. This studio is my one escape from the rest of the house.

Sometimes the heat is sweltering up here—or freezing cold in the winter—but at least the place is pretty.

Fifteen-foot glass ceiling. Warm, red stucco-lined walls.

The space is small and square and located on the rooftop of the estate where I’ve lived my entire life.

Where my mother lived and died. In one corner of the studio sits the wicker rocking chair where she used to rest and watch child-me play with her paintbrushes and wave them around like magic wands.

To me, they really did create magic, because my mother’s exceptional paintings were born of those brushes. I glance at that chair, empty now, and remember how the artificial light glared down on her face the last time I saw her, all tired and faded in a hospital bed…

My darling, there’s something I must tell you before I die.

As I shove the memory away and tilt my head, I feel a little tickle.

My high ponytail, the one I always drag my dark mahogany brown hair into before I work, hangs long enough to touch the base of my neck while I paint. I shake my hair off my skin the same way a horse whips its tail to swat away flies.

I glance at Mae Averies. “Have time for another haircut?”

Wearing a green shift dress with a burlap apron, she sits by the open door that leads out onto the rooftop, humming while she mends a pair of pants.

Officially, she’s a member of the estate’s housekeeping staff. Unofficially, she’s my lifelong au pair and closest friend.

My question prompts her to pause her melody-making and fix me with a curious, brown-eyed stare.

“It’s touching your neck already?”

“I know.” Pulling my painting hand back from the canvas, I release an annoyed breath. “I don’t know why my hair grew so much this summer.”

The forty-seven-year-old Frenchwoman beams at me, her eyes gleaming with love for the child she helped raise. “My mother used to say a young woman’s hair grows fastest when she’s in love.”

I’ll never have the chance to fall in love, but it’s a nice idea nonetheless.

As quickly as it came, the smirk melts off my face.

I’m thinking about my mother again.

Specifically, what she said to me on her deathbed.

Our relationship used to be the one thing in life I was sure of. Despite the horror of our lives and the cruelty of the ugly men who ruled over us, we shared a close and wonderful connection.

When she got sick, imagining life without her was impossible, but I still knew I’d only have to think of her to remember what it was like to be loved and cherished. The affection she had for me, much like the affection Mae has for me, may be the only love I ever receive.

And that’s okay.

Wishing for more than what I have is as foolishly misguided as reading fairy tales for cues about real life.

Even though I love fairy tales and always, always will.

They were one of the things that bonded my mom and me.

Fantastical stories about people and magic provided the escapism we desperately needed.

I understood continuing without her would fill my heart with untold sorrow, but I never anticipated that her death would unveil the secret of my conception.

A secret that changed everything .

How I felt about her. How I feel about me.

Before her death, I never knew shame could cling to my body like a second skin. And I’m reminded of this deep shame every time I glimpse at myself in the mirror.

The truth is, ever since my mom disclosed the circumstances under which I created, my mental stability’s dangled by a single thread. For years, I’ve indulged in every available distraction to keep my mind off the shocking revelation.

And when I fail, despair beats down on me like a drum. Occasionally, I fantasize about waking up in the middle of the night and waltzing from room to room while emptying a container of gasoline before tossing a lit match.

I dream of a blaze big enough to consume every person who associates themselves with the monsters who kept my mother caged here.

The same people who’ve kept me caged here, all my life.

Useless frustration and despair well up in my chest. I can’t stand this place. Maybe one day I’ll get lucky and a rogue tornado will descend on the city, targeting only this estate and leveling the entire building to the ground.

A girl can dream, anyway.

The muscles in my hand cramp, protesting the lack of breaks in my hours-long painting session. Setting the brush down and cracking my knuckles, I leave my post in search of the silver water pitcher. It sits on my art cabinet, sunlight glinting off its curved body.

While I pour a glass and gulp down a few icy, brain-freeze-worthy swallows, Mae drifts over to my easel. Her small gasp distracts me from my screwed-up mafia family.

“Oh, Kiara…” Tears line her round, expressive eyes. “It’s beautiful. Your mother, she…she would have been so?—”

The door to my painting studio explodes open.

Fear clamps onto my arms and legs, trapping me in place.

Mae’s worked here longer than I’ve been alive, but she still scurries backward like an out-of-place background character whenever a De Luca man appears.

Unlike Mae, I refuse to retreat. Instead, I move in front of her as heavy, Italian leather boots stride with purposeful steps into the room.

Experience has taught me that hiding is a waste of time.

There’s nowhere on the estate where this monster won’t find me, and he gets off on the sight of my fear.

Despite my resolve, the sight of my tormenter’s long, sharp features shrinks my lungs to a microscopic size, along with the breaths I take.

He’s the spitting image of his scumbag father. Brown eyes darker than ink are set deep into his unforgiving, scowling face. His blade-like nose points straight down to a thin, unforgiving mouth that’s usually fixed in a cruel sneer. His olive skin matches mine.

Rings line his long, vicious fingers. Family tattoos cover his neck and forearms. His nails are long, too, and usually tinged with blood around the edges.

It’s as if he commits so much evil that no amount of soap and water could ever wash his hands clean.

The monster is my half-brother. Leonardo De Luca.

Leo.

Even in the privacy of my own mind, I only whisper his name, just in case thinking it louder might conjure him into materializing like some demented mafia Voldemort.

Leo’s like that. Almost clairvoyant, in the worst possible way.

Today, he reeks of sweat and a sweet, cloying perfume, which can only mean he’s come straight here after some sexual escapade.

Gag. My stomach recoils from the idea of him in bed with a woman. My first impulse is to pity whoever she is. For all I know, the blood under his fingernails is hers.

If he’s anything like his father, and he is , he may have forced himself on her.

The thought kills me inside.

Worst of all, though, is that tiny relieved part of me. The plain, horrible truth is, Leo’s less violent around me after he’s satisfied himself with someone else.

The relief fills me with a torrent of self-loathing, but mostly I’m anxious.

I’m always anxious in his presence. I just try my best to never show it.

Leo wades into the room uninvited, poisoning the air around him.

He takes Mae’s place behind my easel. I hope that’s the only reason he’s here…to inspect my work with lazy eyes.

My heart hammers against my ribs while his sharp gaze roves over the painting I’ve been working on for the past two weeks. It’s inspired by Hansel and Gretel .

The second I finish, he plans to sell the piece. Same as always. Rinse, lather, repeat.

“Well?” Leo speaks without even glancing in my direction.

“Well, what?” I squeeze my right hand with my left.

“Is this the best you can do?” His low, steady voice unsettles me. It’s a facade, like still waters that hide vicious sea serpents within their depths.

My mouth falls open. This is only the third time Leo’s ever inspected my work, so I’m unsure of what to expect. Nothing I can say will please him, nor can I predict what he’ll ask. His needling questions come out of nowhere.

“I should be done with the painting by tomorrow?—”

“You defy me?” He whirls on me, his dark gaze stabbing my face. His brows arch up his forehead. “I asked if this is the best you can do.”

“I…” Words fail me, so I give up trying.

When my silence continues, his eyes narrow.

With one hand, he snatches my canvas off the easel and chucks it out the open window.

Mae gasps, but my attention remains trained on Leo. I know better than to take my eyes off a predator. Especially since Leo’s focus never leaves me.

My blood turns to ice. I want to escape, but there’s nowhere to go.

The thought of following the painting out the window, soaring through the air before crashing into the fountains below, flits through my mind before I shove the visual away.

It’s just a fleeting impulse, nothing more. My mother would never want me to give up.

“I won’t accept anything less than excellence at my auction.” He cracks his knuckles, each individual pop raising the hairs on my arms. “You’ll start again. Have the painting ready by Friday night. It will be your best work.”