CHAPTER TWO
A WAVE RISES hard and fast, and I clench my fists so I don’t strike my own face like I want to. I can’t react, not with one of my guards’ thighs pressed firmly against mine.
My vision wavers, and I sneer at how weak I am. I failed today.
“Don’t you always.” A voice whispers in my mind.
I straighten my spine, my mind ruminating on the moment that Diarmuid had given all his attention to the other two girls and not me.
I want a mirror to check my face. I’m pretty—I know that—so what didn’t he like? A lot of people see me as angelic and innocent, and I play that part so well. Maybe not well enough this time. Diarmuid had looked at me with a tilt of his head like he had seen through the porcelain skin and bright brown eyes to the real me.
I divert my gaze to my lap and flex my fingers. Next time, I need to do better.
After seeing Diarmuid O’Sullivan, I know with every fiber of my being that I want to be his. I will win my place as his bride.
The darkness around the vehicle sinks deeper inside, casting too many shadows. I”m tempted to reach up and flick on the small overhead light, but I remain still. I know if I make a move, I will lose the last shred of my control.
My heart thumps as we travel down the winding road that opens a bit wider. Trees bend toward the vehicle, their long, bare branches like claws reaching out to me.
The vehicle slows, taking a left turn, past wrought iron gates that once shined with a polished black varnish, but now, the peeling paint makes a line across the driveway that gets crushed under the wheels of the heavy vehicle as we pass.
I don’t want to go home. I smash my eyelids tighter and conjure the image of Diarmuid O’Sullivan. My heart rate slows, and a sense of peace flows across my chest. The cogs of my heart loosen, and a smile plays on my lips.
He’s so handsome, like a prince from a fairytale who has come to take me away.
Thump, thump thump.My heart threatens to start racing again, and I will it to settle. I only have seconds before we reach my home, and I want them to be quiet seconds.
Diarmuid’s gray eyes are like the marble tops of my kitchen counters: soft, pretty, and soothing. My core tightens as I remember his large frame entering the room. He would be powerful on top of me. His shoulders wide and his arms strong. The vehicle comes to a stop, shattering my moment, and I open my eyes.
I glance up at my home. The estate house shrouded in darkness is beautiful. A light shines from the second floor. It’s my welcome home. The light of my sanctuary, my bedroom, that I left on. It’s the only welcome I will receive.
The pressure against my thigh is relieved as my guard gets out. The driver opens my door, and I step out into a soft but sharp breeze. I roll my shoulders and imagine armor materializing on my shoulders and spreading across my chest.
The front door is opened for me, and I turn to see the guard sink into the darkness as he takes his station beside the front door. The driver doesn’t enter but returns to take the car to the garage.
I close the door, and the sound is loud. I turn to the darkened hall. I must win Diarmuid’s heart; I must be his bride. The words repeat in my mind with each step I take into our estate home. It once was beautifully maintained, but it crumbled when my father fell apart. He left our family in ruins, and I intend to turn this all around for us.
I nod to myself; I will fix what he destroyed.
My foot touches the first step of the staircase that leads to my room, but I pause and listen to the low hum of the house. Pipes gurgle somewhere deep in the mansion. A breeze touches my back, and I turn to the main drawing room. Inside, it’s dark, but I find the source of the breeze. One of the windows has been left ajar.
I push the heavy gold drapes aside, and a scattering of dust flutters down on top of me, making me cough. I ignore the assault on my lungs , grab the handle of the window, and yank it toward me. It doesn’t budge but creaks in resistance. A chair is in my way, and I push it aside to get closer. Using both hands, I pull, and the window slams shut.
I push the handle down and lock the window. Another cough erupts as I step back from the window that overlooks the garden. Weeds merge with once-blossoming flower beds, and the hedge line coexists with trees and hangs down onto the overgrown lawn. I want to pull the drapes so I don’t have to look at the offending state of the grounds, but I’m sure the dust would suffocate me. I turn to the rows of bookshelves. They, too, have their very own coating of dust. The books that line the shelves are not for reading pleasure but for decoration. My father bought them for their visual appeal, not the words that are printed between the hardbacks.
I crave the privacy of my room, away from the dust and musty smell of our home.
I pause in the hallway as my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten. The nerves earlier today didn’t allow me to even have a sip of water.
The kitchen has a lamp on the counter that spreads a small amount of light. The overhead chandelier is in darkness, its bulbs long blown, and no one to replace them.
I open the fridge and find some fresh ham I had bought two days ago. If I hadn’t ventured into our local village, we would starve. I close the fridge door and pause.There is something different. It’s not something I can see but smell first. Vodka has such a distinctive smell to me, and I scan the darkened corners and stop when my mother appears from the other side of the kitchen.
My mother stares at me, and my fingers tighten around the ham.
She snorts before she speaks. “Eating again, I see?”
The glass hangs loosely from her fingers as she walks toward me with a snarl plastered on her face. “A fat bride isn’t really a good look.”
I’m tempted to look down at my frame. I always make sure I stay close to 1000 calories a day to remain slim.
“I haven’teaten today.” My voice is so frail, and I hate it.
“You look like you eat plenty to me. Put the ham back.”
I don’t want to fight, and I do as she says. I’m ready to walk away as she laughs. It’s cruel, slurred, and intended to hurt.
It finds its mark, and my stomach clenches.
“I never thought my own daughter would be a whore.”
I think of how Diarmuid favored the other girls, how he never touched me. I wish he had. I wish he had made me feel something beyond what I always feel—Insignificant.
“Isn’t that what you raised me to be, Mother?” My bold words give me a moment of satisfaction. I didn’t choose to be a bride; my parents handed me over on a platter. Just like they had my brothers. The thought of my brothers sends another wave of grief through me. Grief that I have never been allowed to deal with. My father is mafia, my brothers were recruited into the Hands of the Kings, and being part of the organization took my brothers’ lives. It”s our world. Now, it might take mine.
She marches to me, and my bravery dies quickly, it becomes a pool around my ankles on the grimy kitchen floor.
“I gave you everything. The best parts of me.” She runs a hand through her thinning hair. She once was a woman men stopped to look at for her beauty; now they look for a different reason. They look down on us, the family who fell from grace by the hand of a king.
“When you have a daughter, they say she takes your beauty away, and didn’t you do that to me?” She grips my face and tightens her fingers painfully along my jaw. “You don’t deserve my beauty.”
I pull my face away from her. “Goodnight, Mother.” I’ve heard this since I was a child. How I stole her beauty and grace. My brothers, of course, didn’t—only me. I took everything from her as I grew in her womb. When my brothers died, her grief manifested into a deeper hate for me, along with her indulgence of alcohol.
“All of a sudden, you think you can treat me like this.” Her anger grows. “You think because you are a whore to the O’Sullivans, that you can just walk away from me.”
I stand my ground as she rants, and when her glass flies from her fingers and smashes against the counter, I flinch.
“Disgusting.” She’s irate, and I want to leave but try to make myself small so I don’t anger her further. My shoulders hunch closer to my chest, but I’m never going to be small enough.
My silence has her anger swelling; her hand strikes my face once, twice before she falls into a heap at my feet, sobbing. My face burns, and I step around her.
“Don’t walk away from me,” she calls, but the violence has left her words, and sobs rack her frame. I don’t stop walking. I make it to the stairs when I hear cabinet doors banging. She’s looking for more vodka. She hides bottles throughout the house but forgets where she left them.
I’ve found them in most corners of the house and enjoy pouring each bottle down the toilet. I often hear her frantically searching the house and smashing things in her search for her poison.
My bedroom is well—lit, and the bed neatly made. I close the door behind me and turn the lock—not that she would ever come into my room, but I won’t ever allow her to spoil this space for me.
I walk to the window and draw the curtains before entering my small ensuite. Taking a fresh face cloth from the top stack, I turn on the hot water, but only cold water pours out. I soak the cloth before rinsing out as much moisture as possible.
Taking a seat at my vanity that’s tidy and polished, I curse her as the red welt on my face burns. My stomach rumbles but I won’t venture back downstairs. I’ll have to wait until morning.
I meet my gaze in the mirror. “Let’s fix you up.” I smile at my reflection and dab my cloth against my face. The burn intensifies, and I remove it.
A child’s nursery tune comes to mind, and I hum as I clean my face. When I can’t do anymore, I open my jar of night cream and rub it carefully on the welt as I continue to hum. When the cream dries, I paint on my makeup; using a soft brush, I apply blusher across the wound before blending in the makeup. Placing a small dab of gray eyeshadow on my lids, I stare at my reflection as I apply a coat of red lipstick. I don’t look so innocent now. I look fierce. I smile at myself. This is the color I will wear the next time I meet Diarmuid. He needs to see me, and these bold colors will make him take notice.
I lean across the vanity and kiss my reflection. I giggle at my lipstick mark on the glass. Using the cloth, I wipe the lipstick away.
He will notice me next time.
“Yes, he will,” I say to my reflection.