Chapter 5
five
RHYS
We don’t talk about it.
For as long as I can remember, here in this house, that’s been the rule. Our unspoken agreement.
Cillian and I don’t discuss being two sides of the same fucked-up coin. And Dane doesn’t remind either of us.
Not that we hate the thought of being pseudo-brothers so much. There have been times—though I’d never admit it—when Cillian was just about the only thing that kept me from the edges of cliffs.
Because, like it or not, he’s here.
He stayed.
My mother didn’t. Once Cillian’s father decided to swallow the business end of his own Glock, she ran as far and as fast from the Blackwood Family Freakshow as she could. And left me behind.
Which makes sense.
I had to get my brains from somewhere.
God knows they weren’t from my own father. The man who spawned me is some sort of criminal.
And the man who tried to raise me? Is in the dirt.
Caine Blackwood wasn’t a genius, either.
My former stepfather only had to marry my mom—a disgraced high-society omega with a bastard son—because he was damaged goods, too.
Years before, he defied his father’s orders and ran off with a mistress after knocking her up.
Then he decided to keep his mistress and son here with him after he married my mother and indirectly adopted me.
Yet the guy expected all of us to be one big, happy family.
See? Stupid.
That kind of delusional optimism might fly for the general population, but the Blackwoods aren’t people. Hell, sometimes I wonder if we’re even human.
Cillian stands at the base of the foyer stairs, staring up at the hallway where Briar and Dane disappeared. The tilt of his head, the flash in his pale eyes; he looks more animal than man, especially when his lungs rumble ominously on a slow exhale.
Something in my center pricks. The same indefinable instinct that tells me where bodies are buried.
Figuratively.
Of course.
I grit my teeth against the painful pulse inside my skull. It’s dimmed just enough for me to think, processing the scene with renewed clarity.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Cillian absorbs my demand with a slow blink. If possible, his square, impassive features smooth into something even less readable. “A marriage of convenience,” he replies, toneless. “You know this.”
Yes, I know the story. Grandfather thinks his time is coming and wants his legacy secured by an heir. Either from our pack or our cousin’s. Meaning we need an omega.
But, of course, a “true heir” doesn’t just require a willing pussy.
It requires a wife.
Cue Briar Rose Brynn—only daughter of some lunatic inventor who happened to actually invent something after decades of failure. According to Cillian, Brynn developed a chemical weapon worth billions, but hadn’t quite figured out its worth—so striking a deal with him quickly was essential.
The old loon probably still had dollar signs in his eyes when he mentioned that he was also trying to find a “suitable match” (aka purchasing party) for his obnoxious prima ballerina daughter.
And, hell.
Cillian needed a wife anyway.
So this was simply good business.
Better, certainly, than letting the crazy man know exactly how much money his product would make us—or, God forbid, another firm. Not to mention what it will go for on the black market.
Illegal dealings are our pack’s specialty. While Cillian’s cousin, Gideon, and his pack run Blackwood Corp’s legitimate holdings, we make the real money. Selling our company’s weapons to groups that would, let’s just say, not look great on the Christmas card list.
But, hey. A guy’s gotta eat.
And no one defies Grandfather’s orders.
Besides, who better to run the family’s illegitimate holdings than Cillian, Forsyth Blackwood’s one and only illegitimate grandson?
People don’t think about that enough. How much our high society circles judged Cillian for his very existence.
How smart and ruthless my almost-brother must have been to rise through the ranks of his twisted family anyway.
Not to mention taking on the most lucrative portion of the business, running it seamlessly, and never getting caught.
Anyone who isn’t afraid of Cillian is as good as dead.
But Briar isn’t. And when our pack alpha told us about this plan, I assumed his marriage of convenience included a willing bride. Now that I’ve met her, I don’t know what the fuck he’s trying to pull. Or why he would ever want an enemy in our house.
Where lesser men would quail under the ice in my gaze, our pack leader merely cocks a brow. “If you have something to say, I’d rather you did so now.”
As opposed to misspeaking in front of Briar.
I return his arch expression with one of my own. “Does she know why she’s here?”
His gaze flickers, heat licking through his irises. “If she doesn’t already, she will tonight.”