Chapter Twenty-Three
A Sanguinary Tale
Ryan, One Hour Earlier, January 20-26, 2012, Virginia · Aedan, March 12–April 22, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
The exorbitant amountof alcohol Ryan had consumed over the last two weeks hadn’t worked. It only wrapped him in thick, murky fog and gave him splitting headaches that throbbed behind his eyes and rang in his ears.
But he was cold sober now, head pounding with brutal clarity. He sat on his hotel bed, motionless, watching the sky. It had grown dark outside. No moon, no stars. Only the endless black expanse that seized his soul and spilled into it like ink. For a moment, he considered turning on the light, but it felt right, somehow, to stay hidden from the world. If he sat like this in the darkness, then no one could see his crumbling face.
Ryan dropped his head into his hands, razor-sharp thoughts cutting mercilessly to the quick. These things didn’t happen to men like him. Men were cheated on because they didn’t love their wives, denied them attention, were selfish in bed—he clenched his jaw—or because they married the wrong women.
His bitter laugh came out as a groan. It was his hubris that had caused this colossal lapse in judgement. He was Ryan Casey, and he could do it all, have it all, choose any woman he wanted.
Some choice, buddy.
Someone laughed in the hallway outside. Low voices. The click of the door lock.
He lifted his head, scrubbed a hand over his face. No, none of it was his fault, and the sooner he ripped her from his life, the better.
So, without further delay, he called Jason.
“What’s up?” His friend answered on the fourth ring, his tone a bit sharp.
Ryan suppressed a scoff. It was Friday night. The man was probably enjoying his unsullied married life.
“Hey—” Ryan cleared his throat. Cleared it again. “I need your divorce attorney’s number.” The words rose up in his throat like vomit.
“What the—?” The silence drew out, tense and awkward. “You okay, bro? Where are you?”
“Look...” Ryan steeled himself against a violent drumbeat inside his chest. “Just send it, okay?”
“I mean, sure.” Jason blew out a breath. “What... I mean, do you need to talk—”
Ryan straightened, cold all over. “Just fucking send it.”
Jason called seconds after Ryan’s phone chimed with a text notification.
Ryan grabbed the phone. “Got it.” His voice came through low and raspy like he’d been shouting. Or weeping. Who even cared anymore.
“Hey, it’s Emma.”
He sank down on his bed, dull and hollow on the inside. “Hi.”
“Ryan, what happened?”
Unblinking, he stared at the floor. “Don’t play dumb, Emma.”
“I’m not. What happened, Ryan?”
He briefly considered ending the call. “Ask her, why don’t you?”
Emma was quiet for a long moment, her silence thick and weighty. “Ryan, where are you?”
He laughed, surprising himself—a pained chortle. “Where? In hell.”
Emma blew out a shuddering breath. “Listen to me. Ryan, are you listening?”
He plopped down on his back and shut his eyes. None of it mattered anymore.
“I think it’s the past,” she whispered. “You need a session. I’ll text you Arianrhod’s number.”
A weird recall reverberated throughout his body like a thunderclap. He pulled the phone away from his ear with a cold, heavy hand. “Bye, Emma...thanks for your concern.”
“Ryan, listen to me!” Emma’s frantic voice reached him as he flicked his thumb to end the call. “Do a session before jumping to conclusions. Okay?”
Ryan didn’t know what possessed him to call Arianrhod next morning. But he had, and now he was going to Virginia.
He kept his mind carefully blank when he purchased the airline ticket, climbed into his rental car, typed the address into the navigation. He was in the familiar nondescript shopping plaza before he knew how he got there. His appointment wasn’t for another twenty minutes, so he waited in the car, time crawling like a snail.
His gaze fell on his hands—his ring finger seemed oddly naked without the wedding band. He scowled. No, it looked perfect—clean and uncluttered, the way it was always meant to be. Losers like him had no business getting married.
He sat motionless for a short eternity, then got out of the car, crossed to the building, and pressed the buzzer, ignoring his growing reservations. He trusted Emma. Especially since, thanks to Arianrhod, he knew who she was—and who she’d been. And what did he have to lose, anyway? Worst case scenario—he’d waste two days and a little money. Best case—he’d learn something.
He tightened his jaw, forcing down a pathetic glimmer of hope. What could he learn that would absolve her?
That you weren’t good enough.
Shut up.He steeled himself against the dark voice that kept creeping up. I was good enough. She wasn’t.
Always so full of yourself.
Arianrhod studied him through her silver-framed eyeglasses as he stood at the threshold, wondering if he should leave before it was too late.
“I...” His heart thudded at the sight of her white leather recliner. “I’m sorry.” He scoffed. “I made a mistake coming here.”
She took him by the hand and led him inside. “Don’t be afraid of the unknown.” She pointed to the chair. “Nothing is more frightening than feeling in the dark.”
He sat and closed his eyes, clasping his cold hands in his lap. “Let’s get on with it then.”
***
March 12, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Aedan sat in his study, busying himself with a grievance brought by O’Doherty against MacMahon. But his mind kept drifting from his chieftains’ petty squabbles over land and cattle. He pushed away the parchment. Since his failed attempt at Castle McConway, he sent his Neave twelve letters but received no reply. The letter he’d dispatched with his disguised gallowglass—the one that ought’ve reached her first and the same one he’d managed to hand her despite Cormac’s meddlesomeness—had also gone unanswered. She’d likely burned them all without reading. His reputation for being proud was misplaced, for it was she who carried most of that pride.
He understood—he did. She was fuming, hurting, cut off to reason. But she’d simmer down and see the truth of it soon enough. Even with her oxen-like stubbornness, she’d come to recognize his marriage for what it was—a blasted sham to save his life. Patience. She’d soon return to take her rightful place at Benburb.
Aedan nodded to himself. That Cormac had brought his wee Ronan here was a sure sign she was beginning to see sense. A fortnight past, the man stormed in, wound tighter than a fiddle string. Eyes blazing, he pushed his grandson forward and bit out something about a lad needing his father. Then, he’d marched out without so much as by your leave. Aedan gave a ghost of a smile. His Neave still had her father wrapped round her little finger. Her father and him, both.
Those whom God has joined together, let no man separate. Aedan stared ahead. The English lass hadn’t left her chamber once, rejecting meals lest they were delivered to her, refusing to step outside, ignoring everyone save the two waiting-women brought along from London. So much the better. He was near to finished with the arrangements to send her back. Then, he’d unleash the most vicious campaign the Pale had yet seen.
“I’ll do it...” He lifted his head at Kian’s hushed voice outside.
His brother entered with an odd, glassy stare, lingering by the door as if ready to bolt. “Aedan—”
“Has knocking gone out of style?” Aedan frowned. “Do come in, brother.”
But Kian remained in place, mute as a fish.
“Out with it, brother.” Aedan shifted in his seat, ill at ease. “I haven’t got all day.”
Kian studied his shoes and stammered something unintelligible.
Aedan leaned back in his chair. “Have you lost your wits, Kian? Say what you came here for or take your damn leave.”
“I thought you ought to hear it from me.” Kian cut his eyes to the door as if to ensure it remained there. “Lady Neave...she...wed two days past. We just got word, Aedan.”
Aedan tightened his hands into heavy fists, his voice low with warning. “This is a bad jest, Kian.”
His brother flinched, drew back. “Aedan, it’s no jest. She’s...she’s wed to...Tiernan O’Donnell.”
“Enough!” Aedan shot to his feet, grabbing something from his desk to fling at the imbecile. “Who put you up to this?”
But Kian only pressed himself against the door, cowering as if from an imminent punch. “She’d accepted his hand against Cormac’s wishes,” he choked out. “It’s past belief.”
Aedan shook his head, as if to clear it of something lodged inside. It stayed lodged. “Kian...”
Kian met his gaze, face drawn and pale. “I’m here, brother.”
The floor cracked beneath Aedan’s feet. This is the reason Cormac brought Ronan here. The cracks grew, spread, broadened into a black, bottomless pit. Naught to grab onto, naught to tether him. He plummeted into the void—unfathomable, cold, choking with dark emptiness.
He gripped his chest to curb the blood that burst from it, that rushed into the pit as he fell, fell, fell into it. As he crashed into the swarm of foul beasts that sank their claws, fangs, talons into him, ripping him to bleeding bits.
“Aedan, brother...” A flickering line of light through the abyss.
On your feet, soldier. He shook off the filth and stumbled out. His ears roared with pitch-black thunder, eyes swam with scarlet fire as he reached for his sword. His voice was a silent growl, a deafening whisper. “Run, little brother.”
The first thing he struck was his desk with maps, cups, and a pile of unread letters. Next, came his chair. Then, the cabinet with books and scrolls. He hacked through the blur in his eyes and the howling in his throat. He hacked until naught was left. Then, swaying, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, tossed the sword aside, and sank on the floor amidst the wreckage.
“Aedan.” Kian’s voice brought him to himself. His brother stood at the door with a flagon in his hand; his men crowded behind, their faces twisted with horror.
Panting like a winded steed, Aedan took the flagon and drained it in one go. Then he hurled it into the debris and dropped his head in his hands, trembling with the hoarse sobs of a madman.
He didn’t remember how he got to his bedchamber. Ran, walked, crawled. But once inside, he slammed the door shut and stood before it, stripped naked and flayed to bone and sinew. His vaunted pride. His famed self-reliance. His Neave. He scrubbed cold hands over his face. His Neave had wed his mortal foe.
The world shattered with the vision of O’Donnell’s pale, speckled hands on her alabaster skin. A strange, muffled sound erupted from him—not of a man, but of a rabid, dying wolf. He shook his head, trying to free it of the hideous visions. But her eyes smiled into two watery slits within O’Donnell’s mug, and her lips parted, “Tiernan, a chroí...”
Aedan was falling into the pit again. He grasped at its slimy walls, lost his grip, struggled to find purchase. Something burst inside his chest. His growl swelled into a guttural roar, seeking outlet. He would ride to Tyrconnell, kill O’Donnell with his bare hands, beg her to come back, die trying. A fight to the death to quench this raging madness, to stem this unbearable agony.
Swaying, he shook his head against bright flashes at the corners of his eyes. Fight whom? Beg whom? She’d wed him of her own free will—Tiernan O’Donnell’s lawful wife. Callous, vengeful bitch. He ought’ve known she’d be the end of him. A demon feigning to be an angel.
He’d ride to Carrickfergus, then. Seek the harlot with golden hair like hers.
Aedan pressed his head against the wall, dripping with cold sweat. Ah, but I have a wife.
The world shrank to a dark, narrow tunnel of pain. His goddamn wife. The blasted cohort of the Tudor bitch, who brought this hideous ruin upon him. He wiped his forehead, shaking with vile fever. A gall herself skulking and plotting in his midst.
Blood pumping in his ears, he charged toward her bedchamber, kicked the door open, staggered in.
She woke with a start, eyes like saucers, stiff hands pulling the blanket to her chin.
“Get up.”
“My lord...”
“I said, get up.” He was crashing into the abyss again. As if from elsewhere, he watched his humanity plunge alongside him and shatter into jagged, raw shards.
She scrambled from her bed, chest heaving.
“Strip.” His skin was a cold, sweaty casing about to rip open.
“Please...” She began to weep. A thin, mewling din.
“Please what?” He clenched his fists. “You’re my wife...” Another moment, and he’d suffocate on his own breathing. “And you’ll...perform...your duties.”
“Please don’t hurt me, my lord.”
She dug her fingers into her gaudy English shift. She mocked him!
“Remove your blasted shift, or I will.” He barreled toward her, his body parting from his soul. He was no longer there. In his place, was a beast, raging and foaming at the mouth.
“I will c-call upon the Lord...” Her lips moved almost soundlessly as she loosened her laces and pulled the shift over her head with trembling hands. “So shall I be saved from m-my enemies...” A small, pale girl, she struggled to shield her nakedness with her arms, shaking like a leaf. “He s-sent out his arrows...he shot out lightnings and d-discomfited them...”
Aedan came back to himself. A foul bile of self-loathing rose in his throat. He swallowed his gorge. His Neave had achieved what she must have been after. He’d gone mad.
The girl no longer looked at him when she dropped to her knees, her sobs turning to frenzied, breathless whimpers. “Please spare me, my lord...I am with child.”
He swayed on his feet, plunging again, drowning. All his blood rushed to his head.
“You...” He shuddered at his voice that was like the howling of the wolves. “You...wee harlot...”
The air about the girl shifted as she raised her chin. She stood, wiped her eyes, and laughed. A harrowing screeching of a madwoman.
He drew back from her berserk glare, but it was too late. Fast as lightning, she punched herself in the stomach.
“It’s yours, my lord,” she breathed, doubling over. “Take me, then, and finish what you’ve started.”
He headed back to his chamber, stumbling through the blur in his eyes. Someone said something to him on the way. Kian? Fillan? Tomas? He shut the door and balled his hand into a large, tight fist. Then, he pummeled the wall until his blood ran down the stones, and his bones were near to breaking.
It’s yours.But this wasn’t the time for such things. His chest would burst if he didn’t find release. Any release. He grabbed a flagon from his night table, drained it, and threw open the door.
“Dalagh!” He shouted for his man-servant. “Dalagh!”
“M’lord?” The man staggered from his chamber, bleary-eyed and daft with sleep.
Aedan’s voice came as if from elsewhere. “Ride to the whorehouse in Carrickfergus and bring me the harlot with long, golden hair.”
“Now, m’lord?” The man’s eyes widened, but he straightened with alacrity at the roar bubbling in Aedan’s throat. “Soon as I dress, m’lord. I’ll deliver her outright.”
It was the dark of the night when Aedan sat on the bed with his face in his hands. Someone tapped on the door.
“Come in.” He raised his heavy head, and the chamber swayed round him. Three empty flagons lay scattered by his bed, the fourth stood half-empty on his night table.
His heart raced at the sight of her hair. How much he loved her, and by God, how much he loathed her. If only this woman was her. He’d fill her every corner with his presence until there wasn’t a fingerbreadth left for O’Donnell. O’Donnell of all men! He stared at the girl with her hair, fighting a sudden brink of madness.
The lass smiled and took a few sprightly steps, halting feet away. “You pay me great honor by bringing me here, m’lord.”
Slowly, she untied her laces and eased out of her gown.
His madness receded. Why did he think she resembled his Neave? Her hair was the only thing like her. Her body was stocky and hardy in the way of the peasants, face plain, eyes shallow. She lacked Neave’s languid softness, her smooth grace. Neave of the Golden blasted Hair. She was killing him all the way from Tyrconnell.
The lass brought her hands to her breasts, stroked and rubbed in a designed, practiced manner, then sauntered over to him and settled in his lap. Smiling into his eyes, she wrapped her arms round his neck and bent to his ear. “What’s your pleasure today, my Aedan?”
The chamber swung upside down, flooding with cruel, ugly mockery. At his command she called him so on those dark days long ago, obeying him as he wallowed in black despair and tubs of whiskey. How was she to know?
He lifted the bewildered girl off his lap and stood her up.
His heartbeat braced his throat, making it hard to speak. “Take your clothes...” he managed, “and leave me.”
She stared with wide, glittering eyes. “Please forgive me m’lord, don’t send me away, back to that... I only wished to please you...”
He picked up her gown and shoes, took her by the hand, and walked her out into the corridor. His man-servant stood in readiness, a distance away.
“See to it that—” He turned to the girl. He didn’t even know her name.
“Goldie,” she squeezed out.
“That Goldie is fed and given a bed, Dalagh, and pay her price at the brothel on the morrow. She’s not to return there.”
Back in his chamber, Aedan bolted the door and formed a fist with his undamaged hand to make his raging love to the wall again.
***
January 26, 2012, Virginia
There was somethingwet on Ryan’s face. His throat was raw; his chest hurt like he’d done a thousand bench presses. Arianrhod stood beside him, tissue in hand.
“Why did you take me out?” He wiped at his eyes, his voice thick and hoarse.
She placed her hand over his, warm and reassuring. “You came out by yourself, sir. It happens sometimes when the vision is...too hard to bear.”
“I suppose we’re done, then.” He began to rise and winced. His hands throbbed with phantom pain as his heart shattered into millions of pieces.
“You still have an hour left.” Arianrhod returned to her chair. “I can try to steer to another time.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I want to go back to that exact moment.”
Arianrhod nodded. “I’ll do my best, but I’m only the navigation, not the driver.”
***
April 22, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Aedan lay on his bed, staring at nothing. It was a cursed day he’d set off for London. He couldn’t even remember what it was for. Policy? He had his policy now. He shoved the thoughts of the English child into the farthest corner of his mind. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly lost.
He stood and paced from wall to wall. She’d wed Tiernan O’Donnell. The notion plagued and tormented him. It became a part of him, like rot on the inside that slowly expands, filling every nook, every crevice with decay. It lived in his head every hour of every day, along with the images—the endless images of O’Donnell taking her, willing and content in his arms—
His gaze fell on the Holy Book, precarious on the edge of his night table. He’d shoved it away after seeking solace and finding condemnation instead. The verse was seared into his brain now, heightening and compounding his torment.
But I say to you that everyone whodivorces his wife, except forthereason of sexual immorality, makes her commit adultery.
“She needed not wed,” he said into the darkness, nudging the Book away from the edge. “Her dowry and my arrangements alone were enough to keep her for the rest of her life, to say naught of Cormac’s wealth and rank.”
He went to the window. The rainclouds had hidden the moon and the stars.
“She wed my mortal rival to make me suffer.” He closed his eyes. “She knows not the man she wed. I pray, Lord, that you spare her suffering.”
But what of his suffering? Of his demise? He lay down again, clutching the shift she’d left draped over a chair as if to taunt him with it. Four months, and it still smelled of her: sunlit meadows, fresh honey, and warm breeze. He buried his face in it, like a small child seeking his mother’s warmth. She’d brought him to ruin, made his flesh unfit for a man and his mind unsuitable for a ruler. His men knew, but they kept up appearances, taking over his duties with loyalty and stoicism he no longer deserved. Yet the whispers had begun to spread. How long before he was cast aside?
He turned at a faint rap outside—one of his men checking on him with whiskey, a bite to eat, and word of Goldie ready and waiting. Would that he’d left her in that brothel. Another knock followed, a bit louder this time.
He scowled. “Come in, then.”
In walked his wife and closed the door behind her. “My lord.” She gave a small bow, halting.
“Is something the matter?” He sat up in bed, frowning to hide his chagrin. He hadn’t laid eyes on her since that hideous night. Her pregnancy swelled sure as rain beneath her gown.
She lifted a shoulder and looked round for a place to sit.
He pointed his chin at two chairs by the hearth.
She sank down on the one Neave used to favor.
Aedan shook himself. It wouldn’t do to stay in bed while she lingered there alone. He pushed away the vision of long golden hair spilling over the chair’s back and stood, forgetting he was unclothed.
The girl averted her eyes, flushing a furious shade of crimson.
His heart squeezed with pity. She’d never seen a nude man, and likely never would again. And he wasn’t one she wanted to see, withal.
He threw on his léine and poured some whiskey into two cups.
She shook her head. “It’s a bit strong for me.”
He sat to face her and took a draught. Was she after an apology? Serves me right. He owed her one and ought’ve offered it long ago.
“I’d—” He winced. “I’d lost my mind that night, m’lady. Forgive me for frightening you.”
She waved a limp, dismissive hand. “I learned the reason the next day. No apology needed.” She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry for my violence against your...your child. I’ve not done that again.”
He never truly looked at her hitherto. She had soft brown hair, delicate face, thin boned like the rest of her, large brown eyes, small red mouth. Comely and young. Very young.
“I received tidings from home.” She drew a long breath. “My beloved had wed another woman.” She peered ahead, unblinking. “We were betrothed, you see, until her Majesty thought me suitable to mend the bridge between our two countries. I shall never lay eyes upon him again.”
She clasped her hands in a white-knuckled grip, trembling from head to foot.
Aedan drained his cup and grabbed hers. How lonely she must have been to come to him. And how daft and selfish of him to think only of himself.
He raked his hair. “It was an ill trick your queen had played on us both, then.”
She studied him with wide, glittering eyes.
“You’re not the savage. They are—for ripping me from the man I love. Will always love, always and forever.”
He hid a gasp in his cup, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Until I learned of his marriage, I nurtured a foolish hope of going home.” She turned away to stare into the fire. “I’d been contriving ways—” Her voice grew thick and low. “For you to discover me in adultery, theft, or some other heinous crime—so you’d have reason to send me back. But it matters not now, for I have no home to go to and naught left to live for in this world.”
Aedan studied his hands. They’d turned cold and numb.
“You oughtn’t speak of such things.” His softened voice did nothing to conceal his lack of conviction. “You’ll have a babe to love soon—”
He fell silent at the look she gave him.
“I wept for three days and three nights and have no tears left,” she whispered. “Never shall I be whole again. Never shall I love anyone again. Not even a babe.”
He sought words to soothe her, but what could he say concerning wrecked love?
“Your waiting-women must be some comfort to you at least—” He stopped himself from saying more. A dullard, unfit to be a confidante to a young girl.
Her eyes touched on his. “They’re slow and daft and no comfort at all, my lord.”
He held her gaze. What did she want with him?
“Tell me about him, m’lady. What’s he like?” he hazarded.
She stared off to some invisible spot. “He’s graceful like a young stag with dark curls about his face and eyes like moss in the sun. None is better in the saddle, nor at games with his shiny sword. And when he reads poetry, his voice is like an angel’s in heaven...”
Her expression shifted into something new as she talked, eyes shining with love and lighting her up from within. A fragile, gentle soul, sacrificed at the altar of failed policy.
She turned to him. “Tell me about her.”
He stiffened. “You ought’ve come to me sooner, m’lady. I can do much to improve your stay here. What have you need of? A tailor mayhap? He’ll make any gown, in any color or fabric you fancy.”
She made no reply, studying him with a hand on her small swell.
“D’you enjoy reading?” He tried again. “I’ve a large library with many English and Latin texts. Or mayhap it’s riding you desire? You can have use of any mount in my stables. And any food you fancy—I’ll have it cooked for you.” He carved his hair. “Any wine, withal—”
She gave a ghost of a smile. “You don’t even sound a savage. Your English is so well refined, like any at her Majesty’s court.”
He shut his eyes, weary. What did this girl want? Did she come to confide in him or pay him misplaced flatteries?
She stood, and he followed suit, relieved at the conclusion of her visit.
“I’ve not been held in so long.” She locked her gaze on him. “May I ask youto...hold me?”
She felt small and soft in his arms and smelled of sweet blooms and innocence. He hadn’t noticed at the bedding ceremony—she smelled of fear and loathing then. Not now. He held her gently, feeling his limp flesh rise for the first time since his Neave’s leaving. He drew back to make space. How could she trust him so after he burst into her chamber like a rabid hound?
She peered into his eyes, unblinking. “I’m your lawful wife, my lord.”
Had she no fear of him? He shook his head, stunned. “We’re not a good fit for each other, my lady.”
“I wasn’t ready then.” Her voice cracked with a note of despair. “Don’t turn me away, my lord.” Another heartbeat, and she’d burst into tears.
He cupped her face in his hand, his touch as light as he could manage. “Aedan,” he said against her small, soft lips.
“Orella,” she whispered into his mouth, rising on her tiptoes.
He didn’t know how miserable she was until they lay together. Never in his life had he been so gentle with a woman. It was as if he held in his hands a fragile human soul on the brink of extinction, tasked with keeping it inside the small body that contained it. He kissed her softly, stroked her hair, face, and shoulders, and held her hand. It was scarcely carnal. Yet, they were both adults, so carnal it turned in the end.
But she wasn’t his Neave, and he wasn’t who she loved. And while she was better prepared this time, they weren’t meant to be lovers. They made do in the end although he held back so much, it was due only to months of deprivation that he’d managed to climax in the end. She never did. He drifted off to sleep holding her in his arms while she sobbed into his chest.
Aedan awakened to an empty bed in the morning. Outside, dark clouds had gathered in the sky; the first of the rain pellets crashed down onto the deserted courtyard.
“Is it policy you crave?” he said into the gloom. “I’ll give you policy. I’ll raze the Pale until it’s naught but ash and rubble.”
***
January 26, 2012, Virginia
Ryan opened his eyesat the sound of Arianrhod’s soothing voice counting back to ten. He wasn’t weeping this time. Some relief.
Arianrhod removed her glasses and wiped them with the hem of her white skirt. “Have you found your answer, sir?”
He nodded. “Yes, I believe I have. Thank you.”
“There is coffee and tea in the waiting room.” Arianrhod gestured at the door. “You shouldn’t drive just now. Please take as long as you need. I’m here for another two hours.”
He left after allying her concerns. He couldn’t drive, even if he wanted to.
How much I hate her. He dropped his head into his hands on top of the steering wheel. And how much I love her. He dug his fingers into the wheel, fighting a wild urge to fill her every corner with his presence until nothing was left of Connor Reat.
He raised his head, unseeing, on the brink of a familiar madness.
A lone white flake landed on his windshield, fragile and tentative, half-melting on contact. Another handful arrived within seconds. The snowflakes gathered, clinging to the wipers, leaving fine dusting across the glass.
...makes her commit adultery. The vision flickered at the edges, cold and implacable as the air in his car.
“It was his—my—fault.” His breath emerged in an ashen, jagged puff. “I pushed her into it.”
He turned on the wipers. A clean sweep, a new chance. Ruined once again. Crushed and wrecked into unspeakable filth.
...except forthereason of sexual immorality.
Ryan shook himself and squared his shoulders. It may have been his fault in the other life, but not in this. And was he to blame even then? How eagerly Neave pursued her revenge. How easily she inflicted her reprisal. How effortlessly Siena carried out her hideous affair. She’d always been the adulterous one. Not him.
He scoffed. Yeah, he found his answer.
Ryan shifted the gear into drive and headed to the airport, almost humming with the need to file the divorce paperwork.