Page 44 of Malevolent Hearts
Each touch is a revelation, a testament to the unspoken connection that binds us together. His hands, strong and sure, find their way to the small of my back, drawing me closer to him with a magnetic pull I cannot resist. There is nothing rushed about it. It’s slow, seductive, and utterly satisfying to see him above me, pistoning in and out in slow motion with love shining from those hypnotic eyes. As our breaths mingle in a shared rhythm, the space between us is non-existent; there is no distinction between where I end and he begins.
“I love you, Beibhinn,” Cadden murmurs against my forehead, his words a whisper of promise that sends a shiver down my spine. His lips find mine in a hungry kiss, a melding of souls that transcends the physical. A union of hearts and minds in the heat of the moment.
My heart quickens in my chest, but I know if I give him the words lingering on my tongue, he’ll keep them safe. He’ll never use them against me, not as a weapon or a threat. Drawing in a breath, I gather the courage I need to be vulnerable. “I love you, too.”
“Fuck, Beibhinn. Say that again,” he commands. So I do, loving the reaction it elicits. One more I love you later, and Cadden stiffens above me, grunting his release. “Oh, fuck. I’m coming, baby. Fuuuuck!”
In the quiet aftermath of what we shared, we lay entwined in a tangle of limbs and emotions. It’s then I realise this experience with Cadden has changed everything. Our fathers, the syndicate—none of it matters anymore. Nothing could touch this. Nothing could break us. We’re safe in our cocoon, and the rest of the world fades into insignificance.
I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Untouched and unmarred by the reality of this cruel, brutal world we live in. If only there were a way to know what the future holds.
Twenty-Five
(Saturday, May 21)
Cadden
The Present
Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.
?Edgar Allan Poe
The room spins like I’m on a carousel, until all I can fathom are the blurred faces and laughter that bleed into one another like watercolours left out in the rain. I’m adrift in a sea of intoxication, every sense heightened and dulled all at once. It doesn’t stop me though. Once again, I raise the bottle to my lips and whiskey burns down my throat, leaving a smoky serpent coiling in my belly. Leaning forward, I drop the bottle to the table before me next to the white lines that polish the surface. It’s a familiar dance, one I’ve waltzed countless nights since I left Beibhinn standing in her father’s office with hate marking her gorgeous face. Do the drugs help? No. There is nothing that can dull the ache. No matter how hard I try to drown her out with liquor and coke, I can’t.
My gaze narrows on the white lines as I reach for the rolled-up note. Each row promises a glimpse of heaven, but I’m not stupid enough to forget that inevitably they’ll lead me closer to hell. Who cares, though. Not like I’m destined for a seat beyond the Pearly Gates. The devil has a list of sinners, and my name is at the top. “One more won’t kill me… on second thought, let’s hope it does.”
“Bed. Now.” Brodie’s voice cuts through the haze, more command than suggestion. He’s a solid presence beside me, his hand steady on my shoulder, stopping me from making another mistake.
“Ah, Brodie. Don’t be a buzzkill. Let the night swallow me whole,” I mutter, words slurred. He ignores my sorry arse and pushes to his feet, pulling my unsteady frame with him. The world tilts dangerously as I attempt to stand, my legs mirroring uncooperative pillars of sand. “The ground is spinning.”
“Easy there, Cadden,” Brodie says, his grip tightening as he steadies me, his concern cutting through fog. “You’re wrecked. Another hit is the last thing you need.”
I scoff a hollow sound that’s unrecognisable, even to my own ears. “What I need isn’t at the bottom of a bottle or at the end of a line, is it?” The truth of it stings worse than a thorn hidden among roses.
“Come on, mate.” Brodie’s tone softens, a rare crack in his ever-watchful facade. “Let’s get you home.”
“Stay here,” I offer, ignoring the bitter taste it leaves on my tongue as if the concept is foreign.
It’s been years since I last slept at the Connelly estate, preferring my lighthouse, but now I have no desire to be there either. She’s tainted it. Tonight, the lighthouse looms not as my sanctuary but as a mausoleum for memories too potent to bury.
“Never thought I’d be steering you away from your own damn bed,” Brodie chuckles, unaware of the tempest inside, the storm that threatens to break against the cliffs with every beat of my traitorous heart.
“Life’s full of surprises,” I say, noting the irony.
“Isn’t it just?” Brodie agrees, oblivious of the shadows clinging to my thoughts, the ghosts that haunt me with the reflection of her piercing blue eyes and the fire that once burned just for me.
As Brodie cuts through the faceless crowd gathered on the patio, the world tilts once more. “Easy.” His hand grips my elbow like an anchor in a storm-tossed sea. “I can’t go to the lighthouse,” I mutter. The words feel like stones in my mouth, heavy with an ache I can’t swallow down.
“That’s why you’re staying here tonight,” Brodie reminds me, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Ignoring him, we walk through the patio doors and into the main house. Once inside, he leads me to the marble staircase that spirals upwards and my stomach coils. As always, this side of the manor feels empty and forgotten. I once thought this place was my playground, but I was wrong. That was nothing more than the horseshite my father fed me. The Connelly estate was my prison cell, a waiting area until I became worthy of the throne. It’s cold, dark, and void of emotion.
Under my stumbling feet, I feel the marble staircase I’ve avoided in my mission of self-imposed exile. Yet, here I am, back again; the Beast in his castle, only without his Belle. Brodie and I ascend the steps rising beneath us, like a crescendo to the tragic song echoing in the hollow beat of my heart. The air around us is thick with the scent of oak and aged whiskey that seeps from my pores. Unfortunately, the familiar fragrance does nothing to quiet the turmoil raging inside me.
“Look at you,” Brodie sighs, half-amused, half-concerned. “A king who abdicated his throne.”
“Even kings can be dethroned by their own demons,” I reply, the truth seeping through my mumbled words.
“Or by fiery queens,” he retorts, but the jest falls flat between us, swallowed by the grandeur of the house that looms around us, indifferent to my internal war.