Page 35 of Malevolent Hearts
Drawing her backpack into her lap, she flips open the leather flap and pulls out what looks like a book wrapped in discreet brown paper.
My curiosity piques, and my eyes narrow onto the gift before flicking back to her face. Shy isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe Beibhinn, but right now, the slight pink tinge pinching her cheeks and the uncertainty tightening her lips make me believe she is exactly that.
Her eyes lock onto mine as she holds out the parcel with a shaky hand. “I know it won’t make up for what I destroyed, but it’s a start.”
Unwrapping the package, my breath catches as I reveal a pristine 1852 first edition, green and gold leather-bound copy of The Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
The intricate details and weight of its history leaves me speechless. Carefully, I tease open the cover and lift the book to my nose. Closing my eyes, I draw in a breath. The sweet vanilla scent is wrapped in the bitter woody notes of almond coffee and ageing paper, and it floods my senses. It’s one of my most favourite smells in the world, and it instantly calms my racing mind.
Lifting my gaze to Beibhinn, our eyes lock, and in that moment, with the fading sun framing her profile like a glowing halo, I realise something—I’m no longer falling in love with Pretty Poison, I’ve already reached my destination. In the words of my favourite poet, I fell violently on my face.
She placed this book in my hands, and in return, I placed my heart in hers. Once again, I find myself wishing I could spend the day with her, but if we’re to keep up with our facade, I know it’s a bad idea.
As if reading my thoughts, she gives me an out. “Go hang with your friends, Cadden. But keep tomorrow free, okay? It’s my last night here, and I want it to be just us.”
I agree with a tip of my chin before climbing back onto my bike.
Then, I spend the rest of the day thinking up ways to make Beibhinn’s last night one she’ll never forget.
Twenty
Beibhinn
The Present
The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
? Edgar Allan Poe
As I stand at the peak of the Devereux estate, eyes roaming along the Killybegs tree-line, my outdoor gun range stretches before me. Drawing in a grounding breath, my gaze sweeps across the vast expanse of dummy targets at varying distances.
This is my haven. My mind’s fucking medicine. My favourite place on this godforsaken emerald island. Somewhere I can let loose and release all the hate consuming me. A place where I can evict the memory of Cadden’s face as he stood in my father’s office. A sanctuary where I can channel my anger towards the men in my life into power.
It’s been two days since I unearthed my father’s secret room, and I’ve been processing my next move ever since.
Fuelling my lungs with another deep breath, the crisp morning air bleeds into my chest, carrying the scent of gunpowder. For the second time this morning, I meticulously load rounds into the magazines of my two handguns, aka the Shelby brothers. My fingers move with practised ease, carrying out the necessary steps in a matter of seconds.
Then, gripping the cold metal of my firearms in both hands, I feel the surge of anticipation building within me. There’s nothing quite like the serotonin hit that shooting something brings. Some people like to de-stress by taking a nice long bath. I, on the other hand, prefer to grab my guns and let loose.
Taking my position, I raise my boys, aligning them with my desired target. The world around me fades away as my focus narrows to a single point. With steady hands and a controlled breath, I squeeze the triggers. The gunshots reverberate through the range, the recoil absorbed by my trained stance.
As the bullets precisely find their mark, I smoothly transition to the next target, my movements fluid and deliberate as I duck and roll, remaining out of sight behind the mounds and barrels dotting the course.
Every shot I take is a calculated dance of skill and concentration, a symphony of controlled power and unwavering aim. The clang of each hit punctuates the air, a testament to the skill I’ve spent years honing.
Time seems to slow as I continue hitting each dummy with deadly accuracy. The rhythm of gunfire fills my ears, mingling with the thumping of my heart in a crescendo of adrenaline and focus. I adjust my grip and my aim with every target, a seamless flow of motion and intent.
At this moment, there is only me and my guns. The world around me fades away—the grief, the anger, the betrayal—leaving only the challenge of the targets before me. With each shot, I feel a surge of satisfaction, a thrill that courses through my veins like wildfire.
I am in my element, lost to the world around me.
Once the last round is fired, I lower the guns, my breath coming in exhilarated gasps as I straighten my spine and survey the carnage I created. My attention lingers on the targets and how they bear witness to my pain and hunger for revenge. This is the side of me my brother needs—not the girl in mourning, but instead, the hellion I have spent years striving to become. Beibhinn Annabel Devereux is a force to be reckoned with, a sharpshooter with a steady hand and an unbreakable focus. Does it matter that my heart is broken? No, because true power comes from those who can rise after the fall. Grief is a bitch, but I’ll be fucked if I allow it to consume me before revenge is served.
Not quite ready to leave, I load up another round and go again. With each shot, I relax, the weight of the last week lifting off my shoulders, giving me a brief reprieve.
As I finish my last magazine, I notice Rohan standing next to my Range Rover, patiently waiting for me. I’d sent him a message early this morning, telling him to meet me here to discuss what I’d found when I ransacked my dad’s office with Liam’s custom Louisville Slugger.
With a sense of familiarity and comfort, I holster my guns in my chest harness and make my way toward him, the echoes of my gunfire still ringing in my ears.