Page 25 of Clipped Wings

“You scared the shite out of me, Nan! What’re you doing awake?” I didn’t know the exact time, but it was well past dark when I had left the pub. Much too late for a hundred-year-old to be stalking the halls of the manor.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she bit out, her voice just as strong and deep as her emerald eyes. She gave me a cursory glance, then shuffled into the sitting area. “Got too many things to do before then.”

Stumbling, I followed her retreating form, guiding myself along the hallway with a hand. I had to pay close attention not to disturb any of the ancient family photos adorning the sandstone walls.

“Oh, yeah? You trainin’ for the Tour de France?”

When I entered the elongated sitting area, Nan pushed me onto a red velour sofa. Just a small nudge from her and she had me toppling, useless.

“Don’t get on me nerves, boy,” she threatened, jabbing her bony finger into my pectoral. “I dealt with yer father’s shite all me life, and ye aren’t him.”

“Look at me.” I grinned, although there wasn’t an ounce of humor in my tone. The embers of a once-roaring fire cast an orange glow onto Nan’s translucent skin, but they did nothing to soothe the chill in my bones. “I’ve been pissed for three days straight. Look at my face and tell me I don’t remind you of your pathetic son.”

Nan bent over me, glaring into my eyes with her identical ones. She held my slackened jaw in her firm grasp, squeezing so hard that my lips pursed.

“I’ve been lookin’, boy, and all I see is sorrow. The cracks in yer foundation are bleedin’ ye dry. Ye’ll need to start patching them up.”

When I jerked my head, Nan let go. She mumbled something unintelligible, sitting on the edge of a solid coffee table. The way she perched there made her seem younger than she was. Nimble and vicarious weren’t words I’d use to describe Nan. Hard-headed and strict, more like. How the hell my father had broken free of her mold was beyond me. I couldn’t comprehend how someone raised by such a fiery woman could be such a waste of space.

Without a doubt, her bony ass was hurting on that table. I wanted to offer her my seat, but was unsure if I’d be able to stand. Now that I was down, my limbs were heavy, my mind a fog.

I wasn’t lying. This had been my state of being for three days. When I awoke in the morning, the pain in my chest ached for immediate relief. By the end of the day, I aimed to be so far gone that sleep was the only way out, the only true repose.

“You’re in love.”

From under my heavy lashes, I studied Nan. Her sallow skin and bright eyes were latched onto mine. She rested her hands in her lap, her spine ramrod straight. I felt her opposite—three times her size yet smaller in every other way, crumpled into a heap before her.

“I don’t deserve her,” I slurred, inhaling as I gave breath to the statement that’d been haunting me for months. From the first time I had laid eyes on Emma, I’d known she was too good for me. Too good for anyone. Too good to be true.

“Tell me, boy,” Nan commanded, her tone harsh. “Is she a stupid woman?”

I glared at her from my sunken position on the sofa, anger boiling at the insinuation. No one, not even my ancient grandmother, insulted Emma. “Fuck no.”

Nan huffed with something akin to satisfaction. “Then why don’t ye let her fret about what she does and doesn’t deserve?”

“Because I don’t want her to fret about anything!” I growled, a wave of energy cresting with my temper. I leaned forward, a moment of clarity seeping into my thick skull. “Fuck, Nan. I love her, and it’s making me weak.”

The slap came out of nowhere. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the sitting room, forcing my head to the side. Jesus, she was a powerful woman, and moved faster than I thought possible. My jaw was pinned between her fingers again. She towered over me, a rage I knew too well adorning her features. The O’Connell blood ran as hot as it did toxic.

“I will not sit idly by and listen while ye talk about yerself in such a manner,” she seethed, her thin face an inch from my own. Her nose almost brushed mine, her eyes lit with ire. “Love is not a plague on yer soul, Jack Arden O’Connell. Love—real love—isn’t a weakness, boy. If ye truly care for her, don’t discredit her by thinking she’s anything other than yer greatest source of strength.”

Her words stung more than my cheek. “I’m too drunk for this conversation, Nan.”

“Tough shite,” she spit, releasing my jaw and coming to a stand at my legs. I rubbed my palms along my face, chafing the overgrown stubble there. “The best conversations take place in the bowels of a bottle.”

I groaned, leaning my head back and shutting my eyes. “I’m not going to remember this.”

“Ye’ll remember it when ye need to,” she muttered from farther away. I sat up groggily, squinting at her tiny back as she slunk into a dark hallway. Her suite was on the ground floor.

“How did you know?” I called after her, my throat hoarse and broken. I was going to black out any second. “How did you know I’m in love?”

Her blurry form turned to face me. I couldn’t make out her features. There were three of her peering at me from across the sitting room.

“I looked in yer eyes, Jack,” she said, her voice echoing in my eardrums. “There’s an ocean of sorrow, but there’s also a glimmer of hope. I’ve never once seen them shine like that, not even when ye were a wee lad. Hold on to that hope, boy. Hold on to her.”

Chapter Eleven

Emma

---