Page 1 of Malevolent Hearts
One
Beibhinn
The Present
I heard sounds from heaven; and I heard sounds from hell!
Listen! Listen, and I will tell you how it happened.
—Edgar Allan Poe
What in the fuck happened last night?
Bright light assaults my face, forcing my eyelids to clamp shut as I fight against the blinding beams that threaten to burn my eyes from their sockets.
How much did I drink?
With a sandpaper tongue, I dampen the roof of my mouth. My stomach revolts against the acid churning in its depths, and I mentally curse the strawberry daiquiri gods for the worst hangover I’ve ever had. It’s not like me to drink myself unconscious. Normally, I’m more sensible when it comes to my alcohol consumption, preferring to remain somewhat aware of my surroundings, especially when I’m keeping syndicate company. Fuck knows the original Kings aren’t exactly known for their chivalry, and as a female initiate—one who has heard more than her fair share of sordid tales—it’s wise to be cautious.
But… if the steady unbearable thrumming through my skull is anything to go by, last night I had other priorities. I opted for shitfaced drunk and lost all recollection of how I got home, out of my dress, and into the comfort of my bed.
Jesus, Mary, and her gullible husband Joseph, what in the name of “there’s no such thing as an immaculate conception” were in those cocktails?
Every muscle in my body aches, and even though I can’t comprehend moving my heavy limbs, I know the second I make an attempt I’ll regret it.
Caffeine… I need all the caffeine. Maybe then I won’t feel like death warmed up on a banjaxed toaster.
My neck is stiff as I fail to evict my head from the softness of the mattress beneath me. Choosing a different tactic, my foggy brain sends a signal to my legs, but once again… nothing. Defeat washes through me. That’s it, I’m never drinking again.
Alarm bells join the pounding in my head. I fight through the smog clouding my memory until snippets of last night’s party come crashing to the forefront of my mind. One person in particular stars in the lead role.
Something terrifying claws at my skin, and I know I’m missing crucial pieces of a puzzle. As if I’ve plummeted into a pool of ice-cold water, my body finally catches up to my mind, accompanied by a burning pain that sears my skin. Unfamiliar weight tugs at my wrists and ankles, followed by an excruciating tightness ricocheting across my shoulder blades.
The reason I can’t move hits me like a freight train as I struggle against the resistance. How wrong I was! I’m not wrapped in the softness of my bed. Nor am I sinking into the plumpness of my familiar mattress. I’m tied up… and not in a fucking sexy, fun kind of way.
Ignoring the burn from the sun that streams through a wall of windows surrounding me, my eyes spring open. It takes me a few seconds to solidify my bearings, but when I do, I know exactly where I am, and why light bleeds in from every direction. The lighthouse.
Overcome by a rich oriental woody fragrance, I can’t ignore the magnetic pull that reminds me of some of the best and worst times of my life. Unbidden, I seek him out.
Sitting hunched forward on an armchair with a glass of whiskey in his hand, Cadden is a shadow of his former self. There’s a haunted look etched across his hardened features, one most people would cower away from, but not me. Fear is not in my vocabulary, and Cadden James Connelly knows me well enough to know, I never back down.
His heterochromatic gaze is fixed on my face with the precision of a sniper. Unfortunately, I’ve always found his eyes hypnotic. The left iris is the colour of a beautiful summer’s day, while the right is a deeper shade of blue, like a sapphire-coloured winter’s night—an outward reflection of his multidimensional persona. A poet and a mastermind.
Light and dark.
Good versus evil.
Saint and sinner.
He’s a man with two faces, the one he shows the world and the one only those closest to him see. He’s a concertmaster, manipulating my strings with the finesse of a professional violinist. I should have known I was being played. He captured me with a building crescendo, hypnotising me with a haiku of beautiful notes before bringing our haunting symphony to a screeching halt, snapping the daydream with the sharpness of a broken string.
In all the years I’ve known Cadden, I have never seen him so… rumpled. Normally, he is pristinely put-together, looking as though he’s been plucked straight from the 1950s. He’s an enigma, with classic good looks and an artisan style that reminds you of those sepia-toned photographs of your grandfather leaning against a vintage motorcycle. The kind of photograph that makes you question your morals because instead of the grandfather you remember, you’re staring at a man who looks finer than a cast member of Peaky Blinders.
“Good morning, Bev,” he greets with a sneer. His Southern brogue rolls off his tongue in a seductive drawl I’ve fallen victim to far too many times. In this moment, I outwardly despise my future husband, but there is no denying how fucking unfairly gorgeous the devil carved him, either.
I hate him, but I love how he bends my body with his touch. He’s a picture-perfect image of sin, with dirty-blond hair streaked with lighter strands, a straight, narrow nose, high cheekbones that frame the hollows of his cheeks and accentuate his sharp jawline—not to mention the two small beauty marks dotting the left side of his face, right below his eye. Even though they should be considered imperfections, they only add to his mysterious charm.
Cadden James Connelly is temptation wrapped in mischief, and unfortunately, that’s my favourite kind. A fine line separates love and hate, and I walk it like a professional tightrope walker. One wrong move and the fall would destroy me.