“Princess, what happened?” he asked tenderly.
I stood stiffly, trying not to break, but the concern on his face was too much. I fell into his chest and began to cry again until I had no more tears left in my body. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, me sobbing into his shirt, his arms wrapped around me, but eventually we started walking to the front door.
“Come on, let’s get inside and…”
“No,” I said flatly, cutting him off. I stepped in front of him, blocking his access to the ornately carved double doors. “Not until you promise me that you willnotsay a word to my father about this. He doesn’t know I’ve stayed in contact with Callum, and he doesn’tneedto know.” It was a plea and a demand all at once. I’d been taking risks, sneaking around with Callum when things between our families were… uncertain. The consequences could be devastating.
“I promise. Scout's honor.” Orin’s expression was solemn, and I knew he understood.
I let out a breath and turned to face the double doors. Just as I opened them a crack, he said, “We’ll be training tomorrow at nine o’clock. Be dressed and ready.” Without turning or responding, I stepped into the house. I had no more fight left in me to try and argue.
I trudged up the long staircase to my bedroom and headed straight into my bathroom. I flipped the light switch and gazed at myself in the mirror. I looked terrible. My dress was drenched with sweat and ripped at the hem; my mascara had run down to my chest, my hair was wild and tangled, and my eyes… my eyes looked… hollow.
Anger surged through me. “Fuck this fucking dress,” I gritted as I ripped it off and dropped it into the small metal trash can beside the sink. Igrabbed the trash can and marched toward my balcony, snatching the box of matches sitting next to a candle on the nightstand.
I dropped the trash can on the balcony, opened the matchbox, pulled out a single match, and held it in front of my face. Before I even considered the fact that I could have very well burned my house down, I slid the match across the strike strip and watched as it fell onto the shreds of the dress. I watched as the flames spread, turning that pink dress into nothing more than ash.
As the flames flickered out, I promised myself I’d never hurt like this again. But I couldn’t have known how much more pain was in store for me…
Chapter 1
Maeve
Eleutheromania (n) a strong desire for freedom
24 Years Old-Present Day
The repetitive tapping of rain on the window beside my bed slowly pulls me from my slumber. I lie in bed listening to it, trying to soak in the peace and fighting my exhaustion. I hadn’t gotten much sleep. The nightmares never left me these days. It also hadn’t helped that I’d gotten back from Nessa’s at the crack of dawn. All the sneaking around was really getting to me. I’d had to wait until at least nine the night before to make my way quietly downstairs, trying to avoid my father’s watchful eye and incessant questions. His caution made sense, of course, after everything that has happened, but still. Having to sneak around to see anyone, especially my own cousin, at almost 25 years old, felt demeaning. Luckily, I had Orin’s aid in my nighttime escapades. He helped me get to and fro undetected.I really should get him a gift, I think absently as I watch my ceiling fan turn in lazy circles.
I can hear the world beginning to stir outside, the sounds of cars humming in the distance, punctuated by the far-off rumblings of thunder. Good old Worcester, Massachusetts. It’s home, but only in the sense that I live here. I haven’t feltat homehere in quite a while. Not since my mom died. Callum had been my shoulder to lean on during thoseterrible years, and somehow, he made the days almost bearable. But of course, all of that is long gone, right down the shitter.
A knock at the door pulls me from my self-pity.
“Miss Maeve, it’s 6:50. Your father will want you at the breakfast table at seven sharp,” the motherly voice of Biddy, our housekeeper, chimes out.
I roll my eyes and groan, making sure it is loud enough for her to hear.
She clicks her tongue, like always when I show any inkling of thorny behavior, and says, “You’re the one who will have to deal with him if you’re late, not me.”
I smile, knowing she is right, and I roll myself off the bed with an exaggerated smack on the mahogany hardwood floors with my feet. I turn on my LED lights to brighten my, as my friends call it, “depressingly dark” room. But I love the darkness. The walls are a rich forest green, and there’s a mix of antique and modern furniture with gold hardware. Sheer black curtains flow over the floor-to-ceiling windows from gold curtain rods. There was a time, years ago, when my vibe was more light and feminine. My room looked completely different years ago. Pink walls, pink and white accents everywhere, lace, frills, and ribbons. But after… that night… I never wanted to see those colors again. I’d busied myself with redoing my room and my wardrobe, hoping that this new, darker palette would help me forget everything. It hadn’t, but it definitely felt more fitting. I’m not the same girl anymore.
I pad over to my bathroom, thinking wistfully about my library just down the hallway, wishing I could disappear inside it and not face the day. I sigh and set about getting ready. I hurriedly brush my teeth, washmy face, and fashion a quick updo with my long mop of strawberry blonde hair, completely disheveled from the night before, and my tossing and turning. Whoever invented dry shampoo is a saint in my book.
I pull on a pair of black skinny jeans with distressing on the knees, a pair of busted-up burgundy combat boots, and a black tank top with a sleeveless cardigan that covers what I need it to. The less my father knows about my scars and tattoos, the better. I check the time and notice I have sixty seconds or less to reach the dining table on time. Shit. Cormac Collins doesnotappreciate tardiness, not from his employees, not from me. It’s one of the quirks of his personality that has contributed to his success in the business. He’s militant. Dependable. Steady. And ever since my mother had died, utterly emotionless.
I hurry out of my door and rush down the stairs, but slow right before the doorway to our dining room. My father is sitting at the head of the table, his readers on the tip of his nose as he scans the morning paper. He peeks over the top of his glasses at me, then tilts his head to look at the gold watch on his left wrist. He looks back up at me, then back down, letting out a deep, rumbling, “humph” as he returns to whatever he had been reading on the third page. Point. Made.
“Good morning, Dad,” I chirp in a falsely positive voice as I make my way to the table. It’s loaded with dishes of eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, muffins, biscuits, and fruits. Our head chef, Rory, is always overcooking for every meal. I’d told him a hundred times that this amount of food is unnecessary for just my father and me. He always responded with a polite “Of course, Miss Maeve, of course,” but still hadn’t changed the banquet layout. I set about filling my plate with lightly buttered toast, vanilla Greek yogurt, and a few berries. Myfather’s plate, untouched before him, is full of bacon, eggs, oats, and a mixture of vibrant fruit.
“Orin tells me you’ve upped your training to five days a week,” my father says in his faint Irish brogue, looking over his readers at me as I sit down.
“I had too much free time, so we upped training days to help fill the gaps in my schedule,” I answer, moving the fruit around on my plate aimlessly. Of course, I couldn’t tell him the actual reason for the increase in my training. Finding anything interesting enough to fill my time outside of my small interior design business, reading, and playing the piano, usually left too much time for my thoughts to wander. The less time my mind was idle, the less time I had to fall into a downward spiral.
Returning his gaze to the paper once again, he says, “Lorcan sent a new dietary plan to the chef, and I recall seeing some protein on that list.” He looks over to my plate and then at me. I don’t even try to argue. I just grab some turkey sausage and eggs from the spread on the table. The remainder of breakfast is spent in silence, the soft rustle of the newspaper the only sound.
As I toy with my unwanted breakfast, I find myself looking at my father, truly looking at him, for the first time in quite a while. His once dark brown hair is now more gray than brown, and the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead are much more prominent these days. But his posture is straight, and his body is toned. He’s still in great shape, physically, for being in his early fifties. I watch him as he squints at the paper, apparently disapproving of whatever he’s reading. I wonder when I last saw him smile, but I can’t remember. As much as my mother’s deathhad been a blow to me, he had also suffered so much. But we’d both suffered in silence, never leaning on each other for support.
The only things he seems to be able to talk to me about these days are my training and not mingling with the opposite sex. I understood it. He didn’t want to lose me, too, especially after what happened to me six years ago—six years and eleven months ago, to be exact. But that didn’t make it any easier. I used to try to make small talk with him, but over time, I just stopped talking and accepted that the father I once had—the man who smiled, laughed, and called memo ghrian—was gone.
