Cian doesn’t lack female attention as, according to his mum, he’s a handsome devil, but he grows bored easily, a product of growing up and having it all.
We’re both looking for something…more, in every aspect of our lives. Something more that’ll help drive the demons away, and I found more last night, so much more. I crack my knuckles, just thinking of Babydoll.
Amber gasps when she notices my face. “Punky, what did he—”
But I cut her off, not wanting the twins to overhear. “The aul’ lad gone then?”
Amber wipes away a tear, before nodding.
Her kindness still shocks me sometimes. I don’t understand why she cares. And this is why I believe I’m dead inside. I don’t feel what others do. I can’t remember the last time I cried or cared. I wake, shower, run errands for my da—repeat.
I function on autopilot, waiting for some big revelation to appear. But it never does.
However, the thought of killing every Doyle alive shifts this emptiness I feel. It’s the first time in forever I’ve felt like I’m on the right path. I know that path will be laced with danger, carnage, and blood, but it’s here where I belong.
I look at Cian, hinting the plan starts now.
He gets up reluctantly, clearly wanting to spend more time with Amber, but that can wait. Da has some business meetings this morning; I know because I checked his weekly planner. He’ll be back soon, so we don’t have much time.
“Do you want me to bring them back inside?” Amber asks, looking at the twins who are thoroughly engrossed in their video game.
“They’re all right to stay here.”
Amber nods and commences making my bed, knowing how pedantic I am. I would usually do it myself, but at the moment, it hurts to breathe.
Nodding my thanks, I kiss the twin’s foreheads before Cian and I make our way to the main house. My lungs are screaming at me to stop, but I persevere.
“How’d ya get on last night with Darcy?” I ask, hoping he shares that Rory and Darcy are now seeing one another. This will get Dad off my back.
“Ack, Rory fancies her something shockin’, but she’s not interested. She asked about ya.”
Gripping my side, I inhale sharply to measure my choppy breaths. “Fuck.”
“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, sensing my distress.
“We’re callin’ on the Duffys’ for tea tonight. I think my dad is trying to set somethin’ up with Darcy and me.”
Cian’s eyes widen. “Shite. Rory is really hung up on her.”
“I know. It doesn’t matter what Dad wants. He’s away in the head if he thinks this is happenin’. I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone.”
“Except for the wee doll from last night, aye?”
He grunts when I elbow him in the ribs.
“I don’t want her. She…interested me, aye, but she fuckin’ stole from me.”
“And?” he poses. “Ya steal from everyone.”
“Remind me why yer still my friend?” I quip.
Cian knows not to press. I don’t do feelings or emotions. I never have. He’d love nothing more than to talk about girls over a pint, but I’ve never been interested in that.
But the conversation turns serious when Cian asks, “What happens if yer dad won’t take no for an answer?”
I don’t reply, and instead, focus on getting into Dad’s office.
We enter through the back door where Fiona’s personal chefs are busy preparing her breakfast. I have no idea what she does. She doesn’t cook, clean, or look after the twins. I stay out of her way, and mostly, she does the same with me.
She married my dad a few months after my ma was murdered. She often says she never planned to fall in love with her dead best friend’s husband, but we all know what a load of shite that is. The church allowed their union because my dad wasn’t divorced—he was a widower.
Just thinking about how fucked up my childhood was, I curl my lip and continue walking through the castle, ensuring we keep out of anyone’s way. Cian stands close behind me, always having my back.
When we get to my dad’s office, I look down the long hallway. When the coast is clear, I slip off my silver chain with a key dangling off the end. The key unlocks this office door.
“Yeo,” Cian whispers with a smirk.
Slipping the key into the lock, I turn it, and when it clicks over, I open the door. We enter Dad’s office, then close the door softly behind us.
I head straight for my dad’s desk and drop to a crouch to open the bottom drawer. Taking care to keep everything the way Da left it, I flick through the files until I come to the folder I want. Opening it, I reach for the timeworn photograph that still has the ability to shock me after all this time.
Cian peers over my shoulder, gasping when he sees it. “That’s you?”
“Aye,” I reply, looking into the sad eyes of five-year-old me.
Even though I don’t remember this photograph being taken, I do remember the pools of blood on the white carpet. I trace my finger over one in the background—it was where my ma took her last breath.
“Who did that to yer face?”
“I did,” I reply, remembering drawing each line with precision to reflect the injuries inflicted on my ma. “This is what they did to her, Cian. They took a knife and slit her mouth, ear to ear, to silence her screams.
“And after they were done rapin’ her broken body, they slit her throat,” I reveal, running two fingers over the black paint over my throat.
“Fuckin’ hell, mate. I’m sorry,” Cian says, his disgust clear.
I’ve never told him or Rory the details of what happened that night. I didn’t see the point. But now, they both need to know it all to understand why I’m about to start a war.
“She told me to pretend I was someone else, that I wasn’t really there. But all I could paint was what they did to her. It was my way to help carry her pain because I was locked in the wardrobe, watchin’ them kill my ma.”
“Is that why ya don’t like confined spaces?”
Not much scares me anymore, but being locked up with no escape route is my worst nightmare. I’m awful claustrophobic, but no one knows it. This is a weakness my enemies would exploit.
“Aye.”
Cian is quiet, digesting what I just shared. This is why I don’t tell anyone about my past. I don’t want sympathy or anyone to look at me with pity in their eyes.
“I remember bits and pieces, but I’ll always remember her sacrifice. And this photograph just reinforces what I have to do.
“I think even as a wain, I knew that drawin’ what I saw, a reflection of what they did to her, would help me avenge her death. I remember blood. Her screams. Her body coolin’ as I lay beside her for three days.
“But these three lines”—I slide my finger over the three red slashes on my forehead—“they represent the three arseholes who took her life. I drew them to ensure I never forgot.
“One of them, the one who slit her throat, knew I was there.”
“Away on!” he wheezes, shook.
“He unlocked the door, but left me there unharmed…why? This has always confused me because I don’t understand. If he knew I was there, why didn’t he kill me too?”