I took a swig from the vodka, slouching against the wall in the barn, surrounded by horse shit.
I closed my eyes. A snippet of a few weeks ago played behind my eyelids.
Of Persephone pulling me to the laundry room—I had no idea where that room was, exactly, before that moment—hopping on a working washing machine, spreading her thighs for me, and moaning my name as I fucked her hard.
I opened my eyes, rubbing at them. It was dark outside. I must’ve passed out a few hours ago and blacked out.
Excellent. A few more months of this, and I should be good to go back into my previous state of numbness.
Yellow headlights shimmered from outside the open door of the barn. Tires crunched hay outside. Someone was coming.
I let go of the empty vodka bottle, watching as it rolled all the way to Hamilton’s stall. The asshole almost cost me a wife. Fucker.
The intruder killed the engine, flung the driver’s door open, and stepped out, the crisp sound of leaves under their boots grating on my nerves.
“Kill? Are you there?” Hunter’s baritone demanded. Since when did my brother turn into an authoritative, respectable figure?
“No,” I growled, knowing he was going to come in anyway.
He did just that, halting at the door to the barn with his hands on his hips.
“Sailor had the baby. I have a daughter.”
I expected to feel the relief of him not having a son, a true heir, someone to take over Royal Pipelines, but all I felt was emptiness. I knew normal people would be happy for their brother. I wasn’t normal.
“Congratulations,” I said monotonously. “Are the mother and daughter healthy?”
“Very.”
“Good. I opened a trust fund in your child’s honor. Three grand a month until college.”
“Thanks, but that’s not why I’m here.” He took a step inside, closing the door behind him. “Sam found out Andrew put Paxton Veitch on the plane back to Boston. That’s how he got here. Arrowsmith was obviously trying to stir shit.”
Paxton was no longer a threat.
He was probably never a threat.
The only person standing in my way to having Persephone Penrose was me, and I did a hell of a job at keeping us apart.
I unscrewed another bottle of vodka. My bladder was screaming at me to stop drinking, but my brain urged me to keep going until the blissful numbness was restored.
“I know,” I drawled. “I got it out of Paxton myself. Apparently, I’m the only son of a bitch around qualified to get shit done.”
“Doubt it.” Hunter sighed.
“Why?”
“Because you’re currently trying to loosen the bottom of a liquor bottle.”
My brother grabbed the vodka from my hand, turning it upside down. I took the opportunity to wobble to my feet. I turned around and took a piss. Strictly speaking, pissing in my horse stable was vandalizing my own property. Then again, punishing myself seemed like a good idea.
I turned back around. Ceann beag handed me the bottle silently. I glared at him. At all six versions of him.
“I took care of the Arrowsmith problem,” I said blandly. “Well, my wife did.”
“That’s not why I’m here, either.”
“Why are you here?” I squinted. “Go be with your family.”
Hunter had a family of his own. A real family, shaped and molded by him and his wife. His wasn’t rotten from the inside, built on the ruins of social standing, old money, and greed.
“I am with my family.” He grabbed the bottle in my hand, throwing it aside with a frown. “With the family who needs me right now. And I’d very much like to go back to the one I’ve just created, so would you tell me what the fuck is going on with you?”
I zigzagged to the door, flung it open, and stepped out of the barn. Hunter grunted, following me. It wasn’t lost on me that the tables had turned. I was the shitshow brother now, and he was the responsible family man.
“She saved my ass,” I said as my brother tracked me down the dirt path back to the main cabin. “Tutoring that asshole’s kids. Digging up dirt on him. She did it for me. All this time, I thought she was just getting back at me for being cruel to her.”
“You cursed,” he noted.
No fucking shit, Sherlock.
And it felt too good to fucking stop, dammit.
Since Tourette’s syndrome was known as “that cursing disorder,” I’d made it a point to never utter a swear word. There was no better way to distance myself from the stigma. But profanity was never my problem. I’d never cursed during my attacks.
At that moment, though, I had an acute case of not giving a fuck.
Not giving a fuck if people found out.
Not giving a fuck if cursing wasn’t proper or well-mannered.
Not noble enough for the heir of Royal Pipelines.
“Persy’s in love with you,” he grumbled, still following me.