Page 24 of Malevolent Hearts
With challenges to face and battles to be won,
It’s easier to hate when the day is done.
—Cadden James Connelly
A few weeks have passed between now and the night I fell asleep next to Trouble. Yet, the memory of that night replays in my mind as though it was only yesterday. I could lie and say it wasn’t the best sleep I’ve ever had, but the black bags beneath my eyes showcase the truth.
Sleep has never come easily for me, but I’m used to it. It comes with the territory of having a restless mind. I’ll never admit it aloud, but when Beibhinn was lying next to me, the world fell silent. I was able to focus on her steady breaths. Then, accompanied by her floral scent, I fell into a deep state of unconsciousness. The morning after, I’d awoken wrapped around her, and once my head caught up on our intertwined state, I’d leapt out of the bed as if it were on fire—before she could see the raging hard-on jutting from my boxers. Much to my dismay, I’ve barely slept a wink since.
I can’t allow myself to need her, not when she’s so hell-bent on hating me by proxy. So, I did what I had to do to get her apple scent from my lungs, and I avoided her like the fucking plague, because the alternative scared the shit out of me. If I am not careful, I could fall for her—trouble wrapped in pretty poison, a delicate snowflake with a malevolent heart.
Over the weeks, I’ve perfected my avoidance strategy, and with the exception of a few instances where we’d glare at each other over one of my mother’s mandatory dinners, it seemed to have worked. I even convinced my dad to keep me busy at the warehouse with meaningless tasks, thus limiting my time spent at the house, while putting some much-needed distance between me and the Devereux heiress.
Tonight, when I fled to the sanctuary of my lighthouse, the last thing I expected was to find her snooping around. I guess I should have known better. In the short amount of time I’ve spent in Beibhinn’s company, she’s never once done something I anticipated, leaving me further enchanted by her every move. My shoulder rests against the door-frame as I fold my arms across my chest, eyes following Beibhinn as she trails her fingers along the spines of my fairy-tale retellings. Lost in her perusal, she’s blissfully unaware of my arrival as she teases my hardback of Beauty by Robin McKinley off the shelf with a flick of her finger.
Keeping silent, I watch as she traces the rose on the cover, her lips tipping into a simple but genuine smile. The book itself is worn, tattered around the edges and marked by every heart it’s ever touched—the way every well-loved book should be.
I still remember the day I stumbled across the first edition at an old car boot sale. Someone had annotated it, leaving their name on the title page along with the date and the colour pen they used to highlight their favourite passages. Below that, another name and another colour, and so on until there were six names with various shades of pen, tabs, and highlighters. That day, something inside me knew my name would be number seven, which just so happens to be my lucky number.
Holding my breath, I watch as Beibhinn peels back the front cover, her eyes landing on my penmanship before she flicks to the first green-coloured highlighting strip I used to annotate my favourite quotes.
Feeling far too exposed with my thoughts in her hand, I clear my throat and alert her to my presence. Her head cranes to the side, and her icy blue—almost too cruel to be kind—eyes peer over her shoulder and connect with mine. I raise my brow, letting her know I caught her snooping around my stuff. Her mouth tilts into a devious curve before she places the book back in its empty slot. Then, she mirrors my stance, pleating her arms across her chest. Her brows hitch towards her hairline as she sweeps her tongue along her bottom lip.
For a girl who oozes confidence on the exterior, beneath the surface she craves approval. She might give off an air of no fucks, but I see her. She’s determined to claw her way through a man’s world, desperately trying to show she can be a leader in the ole boys club. The thought of being relegated to a loveless marriage and put in a box marked fragile, just like every other female heir within the syndicate, drives her to fearless chaos. Her dad never saw the hellion she is, too blinded by her twin brother and what he can do for the Devereux name. If only he were to look a little closer, he’d see a girl vying for a shred of his attention. Maybe then he’d recognise that Beibhinn is the stronger of the twins bearing his name.
“Well, well, if it isn’t one of the Lost Boys. Back from Neverland, I see.”
“I forgot to take Tinker Bell with me,” I counter, making her huff out a small laugh. Noting her Peter Pan reference, I tip my chin towards the wall of books behind her, and add, “You know, you can tell a lot about a person by knowing what their favourite fairy tale is.”
Beibhinn shrugs her shoulders, her tough-as-nails armour firmly in place. “Fairy tales are for books, Cadden. They have no place in the real world. Besides, I’m not much of a reader.”
“That’s a shame. Some of the greatest love stories ever told are fairy tales, meant to be consumed by the brave and bold.” Pushing off the door, I step into my library and close some of the distance. “Coincidentally, I thought you were both, but maybe I was wrong.” I use my words as bait, knowing she loves nothing more than the back-and-forth dance we seem to be moving to.
Her tongue pokes out, sampling a taste of her bottom lip. Unable to control myself where Beibhinn is concerned, my gaze follows the movement.
I’ve spent weeks watching her, and I know enough about her to guess my words sparked her need to prove herself. She shoots me a glare she’d happily gift to the devil before telling him to go fuck himself. “What makes you think you know anything about me?”
For some reason, her bratty attitude does nothing to dampen my need to kiss her, if anything it makes it worse. Because every time she hits back with a sarcastic retort, every moment she goes out of her way to get a rise out of me, and every minute she insists on infiltrating my state of mind, it drives me to the brink of insanity. I hate that in such a short amount of time, she’s somehow reeled me in. I was never meant to be so captivated by my future wife, yet here I am, enamoured.
I cross the room until there’s less than a few inches between us, her magnetic pull drawing me towards her like a moth to a flame. Before I can stop myself, my fingers settle beneath her chin, tipping her gaze upwards until I have the pleasure of losing myself in her eyes.
Finally, Beibhinn breaks the silence with a question I wasn’t expecting. “What’s with all the nicknames? Every time we’re in the same room you call me something different. Trouble. Pretty Poison. Now Tinker Bell. You know, just to name a few.”
A deep throaty laugh bursts past my lips. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to that.”
Her left brow twitches. “Try me.”
“Nah,” I tease. “I value my balls far too much to enrage you.”
The pout that twists her lips makes me laugh harder, and I realise I haven’t felt this light in a long time. And I hate that she’s the reason. Fuck! I want to kiss her. I’d be lying to myself if I said this was the first time this thought entered my head, but today’s the day I want to act on it.
Using the current situation to my advantage, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth while I think of a way to keep her within touching distance. “Let’s make a deal.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists, Cadden.”
“Fine.” I step back, creating far too much space between us for my liking, but also knowing I need to trick her into believing I can take or leave this conversation. “Guess you’ll never know, then.”
As I turn to walk away, her hand lands on my forearm, halting me in place, just like I knew she would. “Wait.”