Chapter 20
TWENTY
Traitor and whore.
Those are the two words currently rattling around in my brain as Nan holds up the dress that has been set aside for me to wear to the auction being held just days after the gala.
The word dress is a bit of a stretch. It is nothing more than two poorly sewn together pieces of fabric with thin armholes.
“There is no fucking way I am wearing that.” I narrow my eyes at the scrap of fabric. Maybe if I glare at it hard enough, it will burst into flames. “I’m pretty sure my vagina would pull a Paris Hilton.”
Ava snorts. The redheaded bombshell is currently sitting on my bed, her legs folded under her, flipping through some trashy magazine she has brought with her.
Next to her sits a pile of clothes she has washed for me to wear back to my house.
My car has magically been fixed, and everything is set for me to make my sudden appearance back home.
“I know it’s not the best, lass,” Nan says gently. “But it is what’s expected of you.”
Stupid, stupid idea.
“You couldn’t find something with at least a little more length?”
This is what I’ve signed up for. Being paraded around like Kiernan’s whore, which is a lot more fun in the bedroom when he is whispering dirty Irish sayings in my ear and less fun when it requires me to be pranced around like a brood mare waiting to be mounted.
“We can’t always get what we want, now can we?”
“Sure, I can,” I tell her. “If I set it on fire.” Although that might be hazardous to the environment since it is no doubt made from some toxic material.
“I’ll get the matches.” Ava winks conspiratorially at me, and I laugh. She is a lot like Seamus, easygoing and quick to laughter, but the glint beneath her emerald eyes tells me she can be just as cold and stubborn as Kiernan.
Or her father.
“Might need to find a crater to burn it in,” I sigh. “It’s probably also considered hazardous waste.”
Nan tuts at our banter, scolding us like two small children, but there is no mistaking the laughter behind her eyes.
“For a prisoner, she sure is growing bold.” A sharp voice cuts through our laughter. Nan’s smile fades and her eyes narrow into slits as she stares down the intruder.
“For someone who says she’s not a witch,” Ava snarls, “you sure know how to appear out of thin air when you’re not wanted. Where’s your broomstick? Did you lose it? Or is it just shoved so far up your ass no one can see it?”
Well, holy fucking shit balls on a tortilla.
My vagina just exploded.
Fuck, I’m not into chicks, but whatever the hell they are putting in the Kavanaugh sibling gene soup is sure as hell stirring my pot.
“I’d remember who the guest is here, Avaleigh,” the woman hisses, her red painted lips turned up in a snarl.
She is slender, with pin-straight strawberry-blonde hair that falls just past her stiff shoulders.
Her face is narrow and her porcelain skin nearly flawless.
Muddy brown eyes are framed by long lashes caked in mascara.
She looks familiar, but I can’t place where I have seen her.
“You.” Nan glares at the woman. “How many times do I have to remind you of that? You, Marianne, are the guest here, and how the twins choose to handle Bailey is their business, not yours.”
“My sons once again disappoint me,” the bitch, Marianne, mutters.
I would have taken the fireplace irons to her face if I hadn’t been so shocked at her being the twins’ mother.
The woman wasn’t at dinner the other night, and since the twins haven’t bothered to share much about their normal lives—outside of growing up in Ireland—I haven’t known why.
Now I can see exactly why she wasn’t invited.
Debbie downer. Bitch on a stick.
How did this woman birth two amazing men?
Ugh, there’s that Stockholm syndrome talking.
Kidnappers, Bailey, they’re your kidnappers. Hot fucking kidnappers who have managed to light my vagina on fire.
“Did you have something important ta say, Marianne?” Nan’s forehead raises and her eyes narrow at the woman. “Or did you just come here to complain?”
Marianne puts on a plastic smile that is so fake even the Russian space station can see it.
“I was hoping to have a word with our little captive here,” she grits, the smile still in place.
Nan snorts. “She’s busy.”
The twins’ mother goes to protest, but Nan is having none of it. “Why don’t you do us all a favor, dear, and make yerself scarce? Ye’ve never been a help before. No reason ta start now.”
Ava cracks a laugh as Marianne huffs, turns on her heels, and stomps from the room. And I thought I had temper tantrum problems.
“Snake, that one,” Nan mutters darkly. “Judas in the flesh.”
I really want to know, but I don’t.
But I really do.
So I ask.
“What’s her deal with you?” I turn to Ava, sneering at the red pumps Nan lays out with the dress. “I’m not wearing those. I’ll break my leg.”
“Fashion is pain, dear.”
“You know what’s also painful?” I shoot back. “A broken leg.”
Nan ignores me and then shuffles out of the room, closing the door as she goes. Meanwhile, Ava is smiling brightly at me from the bed.
“She’s a hoot, right?”
“Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “I’ve always wanted a grandmother who would dress me as a hooker.”
Ava laughs.
“But really.” I shift myself to the bed, keeping a few feet between us. Seamus has told me that Ava doesn’t enjoy being crowded. “What’s your deal with the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“It’s a long story.” She sighs. “Marianne and my mother were best friends growing up. When my mom went missing the first time, she didn’t file a police report until a week later. Even suppressed evidence of their dorm room being raided.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“When I confronted her about it, she got defensive,” Ava murmurs sadly. “And every time I try to bring it up to Liam, he shuts me down. Doesn’t listen to me. It’s like he’s completely blind when it comes to Marianne.”
Her life is a real-life soap opera. A Korean drama. A mafia romance. There are more moving parts than I can keep track of, and part of me wants to reach out and hold her. I want to assure her. Keep her safe. This sudden flare of protectiveness I’ve never felt before takes hold of me.
I’ve never had a connection with Dalia. Not that the spoiled brat or her demon mother would let me. Dalia isn’t my sister, and I’ve never felt a kinship with her. Not like I do with Ava. She is like a younger sister, even though we are pretty close in age.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, a lone tear tracking down my cheek as I take her in.
This amazing woman has been through hell and survived.
She has been beaten down. Used. Abused. And she has still come out fighting.
“I don’t know if anyone has said that to you, but I’m sorry for what you had to go through.
I’m sorry no one was there to protect you or defend you. ”
Her emerald eyes find mine, and she silently weeps, her shoulders shaking with the force of her quiet sobs. Acting on instinct, I pull her into me, wrapping her in my arms and soothingly rubbing her back.
I hope it is soothing. There isn’t exactly a manual for this sort of thing, and I’ve always been shit at comforting people. We sit like that for what feels like hours. Two damaged souls taking comfort in one another.
“They like you.” Ava shifts, her hand wiping at the tears that have dried on her cheek. “The twins. They really like you.”
I snort in disbelief. “More like they like me in their bed.”
Ava sits up, her nose scrunching in distaste as she looks at me. “That was not an image I needed.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“No, it’s not.” She shakes her head.
Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I sigh.
“I’m their prisoner, Ava,” I remind her.
“They don’t talk to me about anything. Don’t ask about what I like or don’t like.
They don’t tell me about themselves besides random stories here and there about growing up.
Hell, I don’t even know their favorite colors or how old they are. ”
“Are those things really important, though?”
“Uh…” I’m not sure how to answer that. Of course they are important.
Right? How else do you get to know someone?
Isn’t that how you learn about the ones you want to be with?
By knowing that they seem to both favor a dark maroon that brings out the green in their eyes.
The way they vehemently refuse to put cream or sugar in their coffee.
Seamus seems to thrive off verbal praise, while Kiernan is more about subtle touches.
They are hard, sometimes exacting in the way they deal with their men, but they are fair, listening to the complaints of their people. I’ve heard them on video calls countless times, checking in with their lieutenants, inquiring about the community. They are caring and passionate.
“You know more about them than you think you do.” Ava grins cheekily.
“One of the first things I learned from my asshat of a husband is that words are nothing more than wasted air. Pretty lies wrapped up in decadent packaging. What matters are the actions. Their touches. Their smiles. Your mind pays attention to them, even if you think it doesn’t.
They might not ask, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t paying attention. ”
Now I’m the one crying.
Stupid tear ducts.
Stupid Irish Yoda.