Page 123 of Vengeful Vows

“You’re still drunk. Talking nonsense! Sober the fuck up and be real with me for one fucking second.”

“She wanted out,” I roar. “She sent her dad a message, wanted him to rescue her. She doesn’t want to be here. What else can I tell you?”

Lara blinks at me, her face going suddenly pale. “Wh-what?”

“She betrayed us, Lara. She’s a Murphy, just like her father. Snake blood runs through her veins,” I sneer, and Lara promptly slaps me across the face.

“Don't talk about her like that. She’s your wife.”

I chuckle bitterly, wondering if I’m still a bit drunk and deciding I don’t care.

“She’s nothing to me,” I mutter, and head up the stairs.

I pass Bree as she is almost at the bottom of the stairs, but I don’t even look at her. I can’t. Because I know I said that out of hurt. Out of spite. And if I look at her, I’ll cave. I’ll beg her for forgiveness.

And right now, I think I want her to hurt just as bad as I am.

I make my way up the stairs, my head spinning, my stomach nauseous, and I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up whiskey and bile. I’ve barely eaten today.

I breathe hard through my nose, trying not to throw up again, and finally, I stand and splash water on my face, looking at myself in the mirror.

“Get it together,” I tell myself. “She’s nothing to you.”

Maybe if I say it often enough, one day I might believe it.

My reflection looks tired and drawn, looking back at me like I’m the fucking idiot, talking to myself in my own bathroom.

“Fuck her,” I whisper. “I don’t need her.”

The way my heart aches tells me I do, but I ignore it.

I stumble to the bed, lying down fully clothed, and I pray that my sleep is dreamless.

29

BREE

“She’s nothing to me.” Declan’s words are running inside my head on an endless, hurtful loop from hell.

I’ve never been so devastated in my life. I’ve never been in love before, and I didn’t know it could hurt this much.

“He doesn’t mean it.” Lara reaches for me, but I’m already running back up the stairs to the guest room I’ve been sleeping in.

I slam into a wall of man, though, and arms go around me.

I try to fight, thinking it might be Declan, but I look up into faded gray eyes.

Patrick.

My lip starts to tremble, and he gathers me into his arms, and I can’t help starting to sob, burying my face in his broad chest.

He rubs my back, singing something in a different language—Gaelic, I suppose. It’s comforting, and I lean against him, sniffling.

Finally, I pull away, and he smiles down at me.

“Why don’t you come into my office?” he asks softly, and I worry for a slight second that he may be angry with me.

It’s not like mobsters tell you outright that they’re going to kill you.

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