Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
(Saturday, May 21)
Cadden
The Present
Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.
―Edgar Allan Poe
The room spins like I’m on a carousel, until all I can fathom are the blurred faces and laughter that bleed into one another like watercolours left out in the rain. I’m adrift in a sea of intoxication, every sense heightened and dulled all at once. It doesn’t stop me though. Once again, I raise the bottle to my lips and whiskey burns down my throat, leaving a smoky serpent coiling in my belly. Leaning forward, I drop the bottle to the table before me next to the white lines that polish the surface. It’s a familiar dance, one I’ve waltzed countless nights since I left Beibhinn standing in her father’s office with hate marking her gorgeous face. Do the drugs help? No. There is nothing that can dull the ache. No matter how hard I try to drown her out with liquor and coke, I can’t.
My gaze narrows on the white lines as I reach for the rolled-up note. Each row promises a glimpse of heaven, but I’m not stupid enough to forget that inevitably they’ll lead me closer to hell. Who cares, though. Not like I’m destined for a seat beyond the Pearly Gates. The devil has a list of sinners, and my name is at the top. “One more won’t kill me… on second thought, let’s hope it does.”
“Bed. Now.” Brodie’s voice cuts through the haze, more command than suggestion. He’s a solid presence beside me, his hand steady on my shoulder, stopping me from making another mistake.
“Ah, Brodie. Don’t be a buzzkill. Let the night swallow me whole,” I mutter, words slurred. He ignores my sorry arse and pushes to his feet, pulling my unsteady frame with him. The world tilts dangerously as I attempt to stand, my legs mirroring uncooperative pillars of sand. “The ground is spinning.”
“Easy there, Cadden,” Brodie says, his grip tightening as he steadies me, his concern cutting through fog. “You’re wrecked. Another hit is the last thing you need.”
I scoff a hollow sound that’s unrecognisable, even to my own ears. “What I need isn’t at the bottom of a bottle or at the end of a line, is it?” The truth of it stings worse than a thorn hidden among roses.
“Come on, mate.” Brodie’s tone softens, a rare crack in his ever-watchful facade. “Let’s get you home.”
“Stay here,” I offer, ignoring the bitter taste it leaves on my tongue as if the concept is foreign.
It’s been years since I last slept at the Connelly estate, preferring my lighthouse, but now I have no desire to be there either. She’s tainted it. Tonight, the lighthouse looms not as my sanctuary but as a mausoleum for memories too potent to bury.
“Never thought I’d be steering you away from your own damn bed,” Brodie chuckles, unaware of the tempest inside, the storm that threatens to break against the cliffs with every beat of my traitorous heart.
“Life’s full of surprises,” I say, noting the irony.
“Isn’t it just?” Brodie agrees, oblivious of the shadows clinging to my thoughts, the ghosts that haunt me with the reflection of her piercing blue eyes and the fire that once burned just for me.
As Brodie cuts through the faceless crowd gathered on the patio, the world tilts once more. “Easy.” His hand grips my elbow like an anchor in a storm-tossed sea. “I can’t go to the lighthouse,” I mutter. The words feel like stones in my mouth, heavy with an ache I can’t swallow down.
“That’s why you’re staying here tonight,” Brodie reminds me, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Ignoring him, we walk through the patio doors and into the main house. Once inside, he leads me to the marble staircase that spirals upwards and my stomach coils. As always, this side of the manor feels empty and forgotten. I once thought this place was my playground, but I was wrong. That was nothing more than the horseshite my father fed me. The Connelly estate was my prison cell, a waiting area until I became worthy of the throne. It’s cold, dark, and void of emotion.
Under my stumbling feet, I feel the marble staircase I’ve avoided in my mission of self-imposed exile. Yet, here I am, back again; the Beast in his castle, only without his Belle. Brodie and I ascend the steps rising beneath us, like a crescendo to the tragic song echoing in the hollow beat of my heart. The air around us is thick with the scent of oak and aged whiskey that seeps from my pores. Unfortunately, the familiar fragrance does nothing to quiet the turmoil raging inside me.
“Look at you,” Brodie sighs, half-amused, half-concerned. “A king who abdicated his throne.”
“Even kings can be dethroned by their own demons,” I reply, the truth seeping through my mumbled words.
“Or by fiery queens,” he retorts, but the jest falls flat between us, swallowed by the grandeur of the house that looms around us, indifferent to my internal war.
Out of nowhere Lucas barrels up the staircase behind us, his breaths coming fast, eyes wide with urgency. “Fucking hell. Where have you been, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’m right here… unfortunately.” I’m aware I’m being dramatic, but I don’t have any fucks left.
“Well, while you were drowning yourself in liquor, I was down near the cliffs, and I saw Beibhinn. She was heading towards the lighthouse.”
His words strike me, a lightning bolt cleaving through the haze of intoxication. Beibhinn. Her name stirs the embers of something dangerous and raw within me. “Beibhinn,” I repeat aloud. A prayer, a curse, and a revelation all at once. My pulse quickens, thudding against my temples, demanding action, daring me to go to her.
“Uh-oh. Don’t do anything stupid, Cadden,” Brodie warns, but his voice fades into the background, a distant murmur against the pounding of my heart and the chaos that Lucas’s words have unleashed.
“I need to see her. Where are my keys?” I panic as I pat my pockets, the words thick on my tongue.
“Not a chance, mate. You’re fucking wasted. You’ll be driving nowhere. Not tonight.” Brodie’s grip is firm on my arm, his stance unyielding as the foundation of this godforsaken house. He’s right, of course, but the logic of it doesn’t quench the fire in my veins.
“Then I’ll walk.” My hands clench at my sides, itching for the keys they cannot have.
“Walk? To the lighthouse? Dude you can barely stand straight,” Brodie scoffs, but his eyes betray his understanding. He knows the pull she has on me, an invisible thread taut with years of resistance and desire.
“I only had two beers,” Lucas interjects, his voice slicing through the fog in my head. “I can take you over there.”
“Lucas, you’ve been promoted to best friend,” I breathe out, relief washing over me like the first rain after a drought. Salvation comes in unlikely forms—tonight, it wears Lucas’s face.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Brodie says, his brow creased with worry. “For what it’s worth, I think going over there, out of your mind, is fucking asking for trouble. Promise me you won’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Regret is a relative term, lost on a man driven by something primal, something that defies reason and caution. I nod, more to placate Brodie than any real promise of sensibility.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Lucas says, steering me towards the door. His hand is steady on my shoulder.
Once we’re outside again, I lift my chin and aim my gaze at the sky. The stars are out, mocking me with their serene glow, so distant and untouchable. They know nothing of the torture brewing beneath my skin or of the longing that sets my path ablaze.
“Come on, Casanova. The stars will be here again tomorrow. Same can’t be said for your prickly princess.”
After following him across the drive, we reach the car in quick time, and I release a chuckle. “Fairy tales normally have a carriage poised to carry the prince to the princess.”
“Sorry, they ran out of horses at the dealership,” Lucas quips. “Now get in before I rethink my offer.”
Before long, the lighthouse comes into view. Lucas kills the engine, and the world falls silent except for the distant crash of waves against unforgiving cliffs.
“Do you want me to come up with you?” he asks, his voice a low hum in the cocoon of stillness.
A beat skips in my chest, then steadies. “No,” I rasp, the word tasting of salt and resolve. “Best if I face her alone.” I exit the car, and my feet betray my bravado, every step an uneven dance with gravity.
The wind is a whispering spectre, weaving through my hair, carrying the briny scent of the ocean. Leaving Lucas behind, I push through the painted red door and begin my ascent up the stone stairs. Each step higher is a laborious climb from the abyss the drink has cast me into. Finally, I reach the top and enter my library room with ragged breaths. One last hurdle before me, I fumble up the ladder to my makeshift bedroom. It takes several attempts, but finally, I succeed.
My gaze tracks across the darkened space, then there she is—perched on the edge of my bed like a siren born of moonbeams and midnight sins. Her presence is a tangible ache in the air, pulling me towards her as if the very cosmos demands it.
“Beibhinn,” her name escapes me, a prayer from lips that have tasted too much whiskey and not enough truth.
She doesn’t stir, doesn’t speak, just sits there, bathed in lunar glow, a vision that stitches the frayed edges of my reality together. My heart drums a reckless rhythm, resembling a captive bird thrashing against the cage of my ribs. With each step I take towards her, the room spins a little less, the haze lifts a fraction, and the impossibility of her being here sharpens into painful focus.
“Beibhinn,” I try again, the sound barely above a whisper, afraid that any louder might break the spell or scatter her existence to the winds. In the hallowed silence of the watch deck, where only the stars are witness to our fractured history, I dare to believe that redemption might exist in the curve of her shadow, in the silent conversation between our souls. “You came.”
The moon carves out her silhouette, a dark promise against the pale light. Black boots climb up her legs, a sharp contrast to the delicate play of moonbeams reflecting against her colourless hair. Her attire is a whisper of danger—fishnet tights and a leathery looking minidress that clings to her like second skin, fashioned from shadows and maybe, just maybe, sin itself. “Pretty Poison,” I croak, the syllables thick with intoxication and disbelief, “why did you come here?”
She remains silent, an enigma wrapped in the night’s embrace. My vision blurs, and I squint, trying to make sense of this apparition. The room spins gently, as if caught in a slow waltz with my unsteady mind. I’m adrift in a sea of doubt and whiskey fumes.
“Answer me,” I plead, my voice rising, tinged with the frustration of a man who has lost too much to believe in miracles. But she remains mute, a living statue, and I’m left clawing at the reality of her presence.
Is this some cruel trick of the liquor? A figment born from the depths of my yearning? I recall the last time I saw her, where words were weapons and our hearts the casualties. There had been fire in her eyes then, a tempest unleashed. Now, there’s only silence—a void where her voice should be.
“Why are you so calm?” I mutter to myself, half expecting her to lash out, to shatter the stillness with fury. But she doesn’t, and the quiet is oppressive, heavy with things unsaid, with the weight of our shared history and the chasm it created. “Fuck’s sake. Say something. Please.” My plea hangs in the air, desperate and raw. I’m reaching for her, not with my hands, but with every shattered piece of my soul, begging for an answer, for any sign that this isn’t just another ghost coming to haunt my broken shores.
Exhaustion seeps into my bones, a tide too forceful to fight. I slump down beside her on the bed and lower my face into my hands. “Beibhinn,” I mutter against my skin, a sacred prayer or perhaps a curse. Silence is my only answer, and it gnaws at me, sharper than any blade.
She shifts then, the mattress protesting under her weight, and I feel the absence of her warmth like a winter’s chill. I force my heavy head up, my gaze lifting to meet hers in the half-light. She stands before me, a figure carved from night itself, edges softened by darkness. Our eyes lock, and it’s as if I’m seeing her through a haze of mist—familiar yet ethereal. There’s a hollowness in her gaze, those once-blues now muted, as if someone had reached in and turned down the very essence of her. A shiver runs through me, not from cold but from the recognition of change.
Sure, my senses are dulled, but they yearn to map every nuance of her—the softness of her skin, the heat of her presence, an allure that’s never waned, even as everything else between us has shattered. Her hands find mine, fingers tracing the lines of my life, my fate, as though she could rewrite our story with a single touch. The contact feels foreign across my flesh. It’s muted by the wedge between us.
Before I can beg her to let me bridge the gap between us, she takes me by surprise. Her lips brush against mine, a kiss that’s a ghost of what we’ve shared before. It’s tainted, tinged with a sorrow that tastes like regret. It’s then I admit to myself what I knew the night I left her standing in her father’s office—we’re fractured. We’re two halves of a whole that no longer fits together, the jagged edges too sharp, too raw. And still, here she is, here I am, and in this sliver of time, we are nothing but the sum of our broken pieces.
When her nimble fingers work the button of my suit pants, I recoil slightly. I could blame it on the whiskey’s toll on my coordination, but I know better. This isn’t what she needs or wants. She hates me, and rightly so. I should stop her.
“What are you doing, Beibhinn?” My voice emerges hoarse, a tangled mix of desire and confusion.
“Taking what I want and not apologising for it.” Her words slice through the haze, sharp and unyielding. There’s an edge to her tone, a feral grace in her movement that’s never touched us before. It’s like she’s shed some invisible shackle and there’s a raw power in her defiance. She’s not the girl who’d throw accusations with the force of a tempest. This Beibhinn is something else—something I can’t quite put my finger on.
I should stop this, stop her. But I don’t. My heart hammers against my ribs, a thunderous echo of the waves outside. Her hands continue their exploration, bold and sure, charting a course under the waistband of my trousers. There’s a hunger in her touch, a need that speaks to the void within me, whispering promises of oblivion and ecstasy entwined. The air between us crackles with a tension that’s both familiar yet entirely new. It’s a dance we’ve never performed, steps we’ve never rehearsed, yet I submit to the rhythm of this darker melody. Suddenly, she teases my pants lower, and frees my cock from the confines of my boxers.
“Beibhinn,” I rasp. But she silences me by wrapping her lips around the tip, deep and consuming, drinking me in like my pre-come is the only thing that can quench the thirst in the desolate plains of her soul. Her fingers trail fire along my skin, a contrast to the cool breeze wafting through the open window. The world outside fades; there’s nothing but the sound of the sea and the storm raging within us. “B,” I breathe again, a thread of sanity I’m not ready to relinquish, but she is relentless in her pursuit.
At this moment, we’re not enemies, not lovers. We’re just two souls cast adrift, finding harbour in each other amidst the storm. And though the dawn may bring regret and highlight every scar we’ve inflicted upon each other, right now, there’s only this—my cock in her mouth, the heat of her skin, and the undeniable truth that, for all our fractures, in the dark, we still fit together.
“Are you sure?” It’s a feeble attempt at logic, a lifeline to the part of me still clinging to the cliff’s edge. But she’s the tide pulling me into the depths, and I am drowning in her, willingly.
And then, there’s only sensation—the silk of her hair cascading over my thighs, the warmth of her breath as she exhales against my dick. Each touch is a spark that ignites the kindling of desire, a flame that consumes all reason. We move together, a symphony of sighs and murmurs. Her name becomes a litany on my lips, an incantation that binds her to me in the most primal way. It’s then I realise this is not the end, nor is it a beginning. It is the eye of the storm, a moment of profound stillness amidst the turmoil of our lives.
“Beibhinn,” I whisper one last time, not as a question or a revelation, but as an acknowledgment of the power she wields over me. Whatever we have unleashed here cannot be contained or controlled. It is wild and untamed, like the Irish sea that rages against the cliffs below. And for a fleeting heartbeat, I wonder if love can truly bloom in the soil watered by hate.
But that is a question for the daylight. For now, in the sanctuary of shadows, her mouth wrapped around me, I close my eyes and let the darkness cradle us both.