Chapter 2 Connall #2
Connall sees a veritable sea of faces, all of whom had been in and out of Patrick’s office at some point over the years—angry but defeated.
Hopeless. Patrick Carnell didn’t come for you unless he was damn sure you couldn’t escape his web.
Until you had already dug your grave and he was just waiting to throw the last handful of dirt.
“They’re only here to see you die, you old fool.”
Years of anticipating this rage mean Connall senses Patrick’s fury before he sees him move.
With a furious roar, he charges Gideon, digging his claws into his son’s sides.
His cousin is surprised, a look of horror flashing across his features.
Not because of the agony, but because instinctively, he does the same—razor-sharp claws going straight into his father’s spine, driving Patrick to his knees and then onto his back.
Legs splayed at an unnatural angle, like he’s lost control of them, blood bubbles from Patrick’s gaping mouth. The stench of Patrick’s bowels letting go drives the remaining crowd back into the shadows.
“Time to end this, Father,” Gideon says, his voice guttural with emotion. There’s another layer Connall recognizes as regret that comes from soul-deep weariness.
The fallen man begins to laugh hysterically before he spits blood. “It was true.”
Gideon crouches with a sigh, wiping his claws on the grass.
Connall wants nothing more than to push his cousin out of the way and reach into his employer’s chest for his burnt-out husk of a heart.
“What was true?” Gideon sighs again.
“The prophecy, of course. It says one must go and one must stay. One must die and…” He coughs again. “So must I. It was true. I let you go, and Dawson stayed. And then he died. And now…”
Dawson Hayes. One of Patrick’s many children, who had been scattered across the country. He had been Patrick’s first sacrifice to his cause. There have been many more since.
“You’re insane,” Gideon whispers to himself. Louder, he says, “It doesn’t matter now, though. Once you’re dead, it will all be over.”
“Over? Now, who’s the fool? Nashville will be chaos, a war…so much collateral damage…” He laughs weakly. “So, I still win.”
Without Patrick’s viciousness and iron control over his territory, the Vincenzos and the Takashiros will raze Music City to the ground as they scrabble for power.
Connall has always known there would be war.
How could he not? He knew every aspect of Patrick’s business.
He’s made it his life’s work to know things even Patrick Carnell hadn’t.
In between sewing buttons, fetching Evian to brush his jailer’s teeth, Connall had studied the Carnell empire.
Knew every ally and adversary. Knew every secret and every lie.
He’d been fully aware of the destruction a power vacuum would leave when he finally killed Patrick Carnell.
But he hadn’t cared.
He’d convinced himself easily enough that he’d paid his dues, whether he was leaving the disaster in Gideon’s squeaky-clean hands or not.
So what if the city burned down in his wake?
He’d have done what he meant to do: revenge for his parents’ deaths, stripping every penny Patrick Carnell has ever earned before handing over the hard drives detailing his crimes to the authorities.
All so he could enjoy what was left of his miserable life from the deck of a sailboat that smelled like teak and freedom in the center of the Mediterranean, with Beau at the helm.
He’d convinced himself that Gideon wouldn’t want the tainted money.
Wouldn’t want to inherit anything more than he’d already done in trauma and bad memories.
Even better, the Rhodes Pack had enough of their own cash to pull up stakes and leave the city, or even the country.
They could find a nice beach in Thailand, and live a happy, free life.
What he hadn’t counted on was that Gideon was nothing like the man who’d made him.
Gideon was a good man.
Three of Gideon’s mates watch from the sidelines. He recognizes Luca and Nix from their enforced visit, but the bigger man with them looks grim. His rugged jaw is clenched in anger, but it’s his nod in answer to Gideon’s surprise that says it all.
For once in Patrick’s miserable life, he’s being honest: there will be war in Nashville over Patrick’s fallen empire.
“Kill me, son. They’ll follow you. I’ve been planning this since you were born. Take your rightful place as leader,” Patrick’s breath stutters, his words barely audible.
Emotions flicker over Gideon’s face at lightning speed.
Connall would love to convince himself it’s just the firelight—but it’s not. It’s anger, defeat, and ultimately grief, as the hope of being truly free from his father’s legacy slips through Gideon’s fingers.
It’s because Gideon is a good man that he hides that grief behind a clenched jaw and visible determination. He won’t leave Nashville in ruins. He’ll carry the burden until he dismantles it without losing half the city to organized crime or military-grade retaliation.
Because Gideon is a good man, he’ll let that life eat away at him until his mates no longer recognize him. Until he no longer recognizes himself.
Connall knows that feeling intimately. He’d let his own hopes of a happy ending fade long ago beneath the weight of indentured servitude.
He hadn’t recognized the face in the mirror since he’d rolled his first body into a Persian carpet.
Since the first time he opened a door to a magic user bent on world domination.
Since the day he told his fated mate he wasn’t wanted—wasn’t needed.
Not since the moment he’d thrown a handful of dirt onto his parents’ shared casket had Connall been a redeemable man.
Connall’s father had been willing to give his life to save a boy from a deadly beating, and he can do no less. He’ll not let that sacrifice be in vain.
Stepping into the circle of flickering light, it’s surprisingly easy to say, “Or you could let me do it.”
Shock fades to curiosity as Gideon faces him, eyes wide.
“Connall, you lazy bastard. There’s blood on these pants. I’ll be taking it—” Patrick coughs out, the familiar refrain like the buzzing of a fly.
“Hello again, Luca and Nix,” Connall says with a genuine smile, before he remembers his parting words to the sweet duo just a few days before. “I told you to go home and leave him to me.”
Luca waves. “Hi, Connall!”
Nix nods in acknowledgment, but whispers something to his big mate before running into the night.
Gideon doesn’t like Connall’s attention on his mates at all, and he growls out, “Leave him to you? What right do you have?”
What right does he have?
His cousin’s challenging tone makes Connall want to remind him who the older, bigger villain is, but he grits his teeth instead. “He killed my father, and I have been waiting seventeen years to finish this.”
Patrick gurgles through the blood in his throat. “He deserved it. Interfering idiot. Allistair is my son. Mine.”
“Your mother asked my father to protect you when you were a child, and Patrick took offense.”
Gideon blanches. “Tell me.”
“I am Connall O’Daire, your first cousin. My father was your mother’s elder brother,” Connall bows facetiously.
Gideon blinks. Then blinks again, rifling through memories for faces and times of his past, putting the pieces together at lightning speed.
In Connall’s grandfather’s last letter, the old man had mentioned meeting Gideon. Said he’d offered prayers to the Goddess that Connall and Gideon might be family, even if they couldn’t be friends.
“The old man from the park. He is your grandfather…and mine?”
Gideon hadn’t known he had family. Their grandfather had made sure of it for most of Gideon’s life—to protect them both. Because Gideon was a good man, and good men do not leave their family to suffer.
“He’s why I haven’t been able to solve this problem sooner,” Connall says, voice low. “Every day, this bastard reminded me what would happen if I rebelled. My grandfather would pay the price if I ever strayed a toe out of line. He passed away yesterday.”
“Why didn’t he say anything?” Gideon whispers.
“You had a new family. You were free of Carnell. He thought you wouldn’t want to be reminded of him.”
Of me.
Connall is quite certain this man would not want to know all the ways Connall is complicit in the evils Gideon’s father had sicced on the world.
“He should have let me decide.”
“I agree, but he was a stubborn bastard. I remember my aunt was much the same.”
Patrick coughs again, his breathing loud as he chuckles to himself, muttering about winning and the truth after all this time.
“Fuck. Shut up, you piece of shit.” Connall lands a long-awaited kick to the devil’s side.
Time to finish this before delays—and Gideon’s well-placed wounds—do the job Connall has been dreaming about.
“As much as I hate to say so where he can hear it, he’s right. There will be a power vacuum. Are you sure you want to be the one to fill it?”
He nods to where his cousin’s mates are standing. Love and acceptance are clear on their faces as they wait for Gideon to decide. They would follow him anywhere, and Connall had only ever seen love like that on the faces of his parents.
A sudden, piercing pain in his stomach has Connall clenching his fists. He looks past Gideon’s mates into the deep dark, but he can’t see beyond the lights. Something or someone moves in the shadows, but Gideon’s words draw his attention.
“Fuck no,” Gideon murmurs, lost in thought.
“Then let me do it.”
“The killing?”
He hopes his next words are true. Hopes they’re not the beginning of the end of the little good he’s managed to keep alive in his already blackened soul. Connall’s wolf whines—not with grief, but with the bone-deep ache of inevitability.
“Yes, and leading the family. I’ve learned everything I need to know to change things for the better. Go back to your mates knowing you’re free from all of it. Let me do it, Gideon.”
“No! No! Gideon must do it. He’s mine. Born under the Hunter’s Moon…fates…light and dark…” Patrick mutters, eyes slipping closed before opening again. “Vengeance and…light.”
“Look,” Connall says, “we can stand here until he dies, but if I may offer some advice?”
Gideon nods once.
“You don’t have to do this last thing to be free of him. Just choosing to walk away means you won. Choose to live in the light with your mates.”
A light Connall will never know. A future built on life, not death. On love, not loneliness.
“I can walk away,” Gideon says, stronger now.
Gideon’s burly mate smiles, holding out his hand.
“I can choose to live in the light,” he says louder.
“You have been, no?” Connall clarifies. “Don’t give him one more second of your life.”
Gideon nods, his face pale. “You’ll make sure…”
He’ll make sure that Patrick knows who and why he’s dying alone and broken. He’ll enjoy every second of it, too.
But he doesn’t say that.
“You severed his spinal cord, but I promise he won’t live longer than the time it takes for you to walk away. I’ve been waiting a long time, living in the dark, too. It’s time.”
Gideon turns to go, but catches his eye, a small smile curving his lips. It lightens his handsome face, taking years of hatred and worry with it.
“Don’t be a stranger when you’re back in Nashville?”
That’s another surprise. Maybe his grandfather’s last wish won’t be so difficult. The Goddess knows Connall will need allies.
“I’ll see you at Quest sometime?”
With a nod, Gideon turns away, this time without a backward glance.
“No!” Patrick says again. “Allistair must lead. Born under the Hunter’s Moon…one must stay.”
With a growl, Connall crouches so his jailer of seventeen years can look him in the eye.
“Not to make you feel better or anything, you psychotic fuck, but I stayed. And my birthday is October thirtieth. Born under the Hunter’s Moon.”
Patrick’s eyes widen with real fear, the lingering stench of rancid olive oil strong in Connall’s nose for the last time.
Leaning in so only his tormentor can hear, he whispers, “May the Goddess forsake you and this be your last life, you bastard.”
Unsheathing his claws, Connall eases back, breathes deeply to clear his head. The scent of heliotropes floats toward him on the breeze. Filling his lungs with their sweetness, he thinks of his parents, his lost years, and all the things—all the people—he’d let Patrick Carnell steal from him.
In the blink of an eye, he pierces the remaining tatters of that ridiculous mesh shirt. Cracking through Patrick’s brittle sternum, the old man’s broken ribs cut his forearm, and the heat of Patrick’s stuttering heart burns his palm.
Yanking it free, he holds it until it stops beating before flinging it into the grass.
He wants to feel relief, craves the hope of freedom he’d dreamed of for weeks, but all that remains is the agony of loss. It tears a gaping wound in his carefully built walls, and with his chest heaving, Connall lets himself feel everything, all at once, for the first—and the last—time.
Grief, pain, isolation, despair—every moment he buried floods to the surface. It forces his head back, and with his gaze locked on the white light of the Wolf Moon, he lets his wolf howl. Lets it pierce the night. Lets it fuel whatever comes next.
When he can finally lock it down, he faces the house. Lit up within, his staff is lined up against the windows, watching him. They had been victims as much as he had been. Loyal to him, not Patrick Carnell.
There’s a burst of light behind him, high on the ramparts, but Connall doesn’t look back.
He has no time for light.
This Connall O’Daire lives only in the dark.