Chapter Three
Kieran
Thin strands of dark hair covered my mother’s eyes. I moved the strands away, my fingers grazing her cold skin. Her body had once been full of life, now it looked as if all her insides had shriveled up. Her skin sunken, hollowed out. The only prominent feature was her round brown eyes. For a moment, she remembered me, and she smiled.
“You’re such a good boy, Kieran,” she whispered.
The sickness clung to her and wouldn’t let her go. I prayed like Grandma did at night. I prayed for God to heal her. To keep her alive. But even she knew she wasn’t going to survive whatever had taken over her body.
Cancer.
I imagined the cancer like a dark parasite spreading all over her insides. Clinging to her organs and sucking the life out of her. Uncle Roy told Mom to fight. As if somewhere inside her body she had little soldiers attacking the parasite, but they were losing.
Mom was dying.
I nodded, believing that I could be good. I was good. I did my chores. I did well in school. I didn’t fight Fernando when he took my Oreos. I didn’t talk back to Mrs. Butane although she graded my math paper wrong. I was good.
I held my mother’s hand as her lids closed. Her lungs whistled as she fought for every breath until there was no more breathing. No more trying. Silence.
That’s when Grandma came into the room.
Grandma saw Mom and knew, then she screamed. Then Roy started to cry, and Sally hugged Grandma.
More people started to come into the small room, and I snuck outside, alone. I sat on the swing set Mom got me when we moved there. She had said that the move would be a good start for us. She said that my dad had bought the house for us, for me. She had said that one day, he’d come back for me.
I waited.
And waited.
Then the men came for me.
They locked me in a cellar. Dark and cold. I wondered if that’s what the insides of Mom’s body had turned to. Dark and cold. Maybe, the cancer had gotten me too.
I cried and slept, cried and slept.
In the dark, I used the bathroom.
In the dark, I prayed until I didn’t have the voice to pray anymore.
My stomach clenched. My tongue felt like sand. My skin felt itchy all over. Maybe it was the layer of dirt on it. Maybe, it was other things I couldn’t see that crawled and whispered in the dark. I felt them under my skin, inside me. I wanted to scratch until I shredded my skin, but it hurt. Everything hurt.
I don’t know how much time passed when light pressed against my closed lids. I couldn’t even open them.
“Get him up. I told you to keep him alive,” a grumbly voice said.
Rough hands pulled me up. The heavy footsteps up the stairs pounded in my head.
When I opened my eyes, the light hurt them. A woman pressed ice to my lips, gave me water. I drank and threw up and drank some more. She cleaned me up, took away the vomit, fed me. A few days later the voice returned. I recognized the clipped, deep tone.
The man was big, square chin, strong body, and eyes … eyes the color of mine. He cupped my chin, turned my head left and right. “Fuck,” he said. “You look like him.”
Fear kept me from speaking.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Kieran Romano.”
He made a disapproving sound like when Roy had to do overtime at work. “Yes, I suppose you are. Do you know who your father is?”
I shook my head. Pain burned my cheek, made my eyes water. It took me a little while to realize he’d slapped me. He took out a gun and placed the barrel against my forehead. “Don’t ever fucking lie to me. Do you know who your father is?”
I shut my eyes. “N-n-o, sir.”
“Then why should I keep you alive?”
I didn’t want to die. I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “I’ll be good. I could be good. I am good. I promise.” I thought he was going to shoot me anyway, but he didn’t. I didn’t feel the gun against my skin anymore.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered.
I did as he said. If I did as he said, that meant I was good, and if I was good, he wouldn’t kill me.
“Kieran, I am your grandfather, and you will call me Grandfather. Is that clear?”
I nodded.
He grunted. “Use words.”
“Yes, sir.” I felt another slap across my other cheek. More tears fell. This time, I tasted blood in my mouth.
“Grandfather.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” I said between sobs.
He called the woman back into the room. “Get him ready for transport. I’m taking him home.”
****
I lifted into consciousness in spurts of memories. The pain of it all readily available to latch on to as I floated to the surface. Not dead.
“Diabetic.”
I heard a woman’s voice. I had no clue where the fuck I was, but I wasn’t dead. Not yet.
“He’s lucky to be alive.”
I didn’t feel lucky. I passed out.
When I opened my eyes again Tristan was sitting in a chair next to my bed. Leaning forward, his eyes cast down in heavy thought. For a moment, I watched him as if he were someone I hadn’t hated for the majority of my life. I’d hated this man down to the deep pit of my soul. A dark stain that he had put there. And now he’d kill me for being weak. For being a defect.
I licked my dry lips, my tongue swollen. The movement drew his attention. Without a word, he got up, filled a cup with water, and returned with it. Gently, he placed the straw on my lips and watched as I drank what I could before my stomach tightened. The cold liquid awoke my senses. Clarity returned slowly.
I wasn’t in a hospital. The bed was way too comfy for that. Lines had been run into my veins. My world spun. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Why would I kill you?”
“Because I’m a defect.” The words came out slow, lagging in space and time. His face a blur in my visuals.
“Doctor said you need to rest. She’ll be here in a couple of hours to remove the lines,” Tristan said, ignoring my question.
I think I thanked him and passed out again. When I woke up again, Tristan was still in the room. My head clearer, I dragged myself to a sitting position. “What happened?”
“You passed out.” He ran his hand through his already unkempt hair. At that moment, he looked vulnerable.
The sting in my chest made me bristle. One kind act couldn’t make up for years of torture. That he hadn’t been the one to actually torture me made no difference. He’d done nothing to save me.
Finally, he dropped his hand and glared at me. The hardened look replaced his concern. I preferred the stone-cold killer anyway. “How long?”
It was my turn to grind my teeth. “Fuck you.”
Tristan clenched his hands around my throat, crushing my airway. I clawed at his arms, tugging the lines. The stands crashed to the floor. Someone burst into the room. A glimpse of his frame suggested it was Jacob and he remained near the door. Watching. Waiting for my father to kill me. I was starting to hate the guy.
“You compromised my family. Tell me why I should keep you breathing?” The words tumbled out of his mouth and all I saw was Grandfather aiming the gun at my forehead. “Why should I keep you alive?”
“I’ll be good. I can be good.”
I shut my eyes but couldn’t stop the tears. I couldn’t fucking breathe. I made no motion to talk. Jacob ripped him away from me, and I turned to my side, filling my lungs with oxygen. My head pulsed with the beat of my own heart. Gasping, I felt tears burn tracks down my cheeks. Angrily, I wiped them away, furious at their appearance. Furious at my weak body. Wondering if it would’ve been mercy had Grandfather killed me when he found me.
The silence stretched too long. If Tristan wanted me dead, I wouldn’t fight him. I was too fucking tired. It was only then I realized I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The cool air against my naked back made me shiver. It took me a moment to realize what they’d see with my back exposed to them.
The scars Grandfather had left behind.
I rolled off the bed, my legs wobbled under me, my body too damn uncoordinated to fight back. I used the bed to support my weight. Weak. I was fucking weak. A liability to those I swore to protect.
I finally dragged my eyes to Tristan. Jacob stood behind him, his arms wrapped around Tristan’s chest as if holding him back from me, but they were both still. The pity in their eyes made me sick. “Fuck you,” I shot back and spat the wad of bile in my throat. “Kill me because I will never, ever, fucking be what you want!”
Tristan shrugged out of Jacob’s hold. “Jacob, please wait outside and do not come inside until I call you.”
Jacob didn’t question. He wasn’t there to question. He obeyed.
Once the door snicked closed, Tristan ran his hand through his hair. A vulnerability replaced his hostility. I could see the sorry look on his face. The shadowed darkness of regret that hovered over his eyes. I preferred his cold indifference.
“Who?” he asked. I knew he needed confirmation but fuck him. I owed him nothing.
“Oh, fuck you. You know who.”
Tristan paled.
“Eight lashings on my back. Whip marks for disobeying a direct order. A reminder to do better. He sliced me from belly button to groin for refusing to whore myself out to a female target. And he burned my skin just over my heart to remind me that I’d always be a target. A reminder that we were all mortal. Does that answer your fucking questions?”
“Why?” The question came out whispered, as if he weren’t really asking me, but asking the dead.
I chuckled. It sounded wet and evil. “Ask him,” I said, my voice thick. “Oh, wait, you can’t. Because I killed him.”
Tristan’s eyes turned cold. The same haunted eyes that stared at me every fucking day I looked in the mirror.
“Do you really want to die?” He narrowed the gap between us, and I had to struggle not to flinch.
I feared nothing. Nothing. Especially not the coward in front of me.
“Answer the fucking question, Kieran.”
Did I want to die?
Every day was a fight to survive. I was fucking tired. And at twenty, I should’ve been just living my life not contemplating death.
Did I want to die?
“No,” I finally answered.
“Then you keep that shit to yourself. Does anyone else know?”
Loose ends. He was asking about loose fucking ends and I had a big one. Tomás. “No,” I lied.
“You better be sure. If this comes back, we are fucked.”
That he used we made me bristle. “You don’t owe me anything.”
His shoulders fell, his eyes softened, and for a slight moment I could see the father I had always wanted. The one my mom believed he could be. “I’m not going to abandon you, Kieran. You’re my son.”
I swallowed the wedge in my throat—the tightness in my chest made it hard to breathe.
“Now, are you sure no one else knows?”
That tightness increased. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Tristan nodded. “Rest then. We’ll see what doc has to say about your condition and work from there.”
He started to leave, and my fucked-up headspace needed the answer to one more question. “Tristan,” I said. He turned back, his green eyes shimmered in the light. “You didn’t look for me. If you would’ve just looked , you would’ve found me. Why didn’t you?”
“I was a fool,” he said. “I never believed he would hurt you. I wasn’t in a good headspace, and he promised me he’d keep you safe. Then he wouldn’t give me access to you. Said you didn’t want to see me. I was a fucking fool, Kieran. I can’t change the past. And I’m so fucking sorry.”
I didn’t see a lie in his expression or his voice. I wanted to see it, wanted to still hate him, but that wall started to crumble.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked. “You can still go to school anywhere. Be something else.”
“That’s a pipe dream for us, and you know it. I’ve accepted your legitimacy. It means I’ll always be a target.”
“And those you love will always be a target, too, Kieran. Don’t ever forget that.” With that last bit of reality check, he walked out.
There was no going back to civilian life. Tomás would always be a target outside of Arcadia. And I couldn’t go back. Heirs weren’t allowed in the school. A fact I had failed to mention to Tomás. And Tomás would never want to be part of the Brennan family, my family. He hadn’t attended Cillian’s funeral, Maddox’s invitation to his wedding had gone unanswered, and the little we had talked on the phone hadn’t included my life here. Tomás wanted to ignore this important piece of me. And that truth wrecked me.
After the time I’d spent with Tristan, I slowly came to believe that maybe I’d been wrong to hate him. And accepting the legitimacy meant I was in for life. There was no going back. The sooner I accepted that truth, the sooner I could move on. Tomás was too much of a distraction. A weak link. A risk.
Dr. Wells came by that afternoon. She gave me the same drill I’d heard in the past—meds, prescriptions, instructions. “The worst thing isn’t that you die, Kieran,” she said, “it’s that you become unfunctional. Blindness, paralysis, heart disease. Take care of yourself for those who care for you.” She squeezed my shoulder and walked out.
Maybe for a normal fucker that spiel would’ve worked. But my world was built on strength. Power. Control. Without it I had nothing. I was nothing.