Page 12 of Destructive Truths

“Wake the fuck up, you useless piece of shite,” Gabriel growls as he stands over me, holding an empty bucket.

The room spins as I lift my head, only for it to collapse against my chest instantly. Mentally exhausted and physically drained, my mind screams at me to close my eyes, to fade into the grey.

“I’ve got a plan,” Cuntface, aka Daddy dearest, continues.

Metal scrapes along the concrete, polluting the air with a teeth-clenching sound. He pulls a chair across the basement, positioning it in my line of sight, the backrest forward. Finally, he plonks his arse down, straddling the seat. His arms drape over the back as he leans forward, glaring at me with wild eyes. “Listen up, boy!” He slides his tongue over his bottom lip, and I raise my brow in response.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen…”

SEVEN

LIAM

Prove me wrong. Beibhinn’s words stay with me, replaying in my head. Thankfully, the hum of my bike eases the thoughts coursing through my mind as I ride back down the mountainside. However, nothing could stop my stomach from flipping with the guilt ransacking my gut.

I despise lying to my sister. We’re close, as close as most people would imagine twins to be. When we were younger, we had a pact, a promise never to keep things from one another. And we didn’t… for a while, anyway.

When we hit our teens, our dynamic-duo relationship shifted, changing drastically in the last couple years. Being the eldest by two whole minutes makes me the next successor of the Devereux seat—a seat I had no interest in taking. I never wanted the life my father yearned for me to fulfil, but the syndicate didn’t give me a choice. My choice was removed altogether, and before long, I was bound to the role I had to play. Eventually, I jumped all in, accepting my reality with hesitant arms. Now, I play a soldier in a civil war, not knowing which side I’m supposed to be on.

It never mattered how lethal Beibhinn became. Our father doesn’t hold us to the same expectations. To him, Bev will always be the weaker sex, unable to fill the space of a king’s shoe. He views the syndicate as a man’s world, and there is no room for “a bitch in heat.” His words, not mine. To the outside world, my father is a doting husband, a golden father, but I know better. Sure, he loves my mother and Beibhinn in his own fucked-up way, but he will never believe they could hold power over him. In his mind, a man can do his job better than any female. Ironic considering the woman he married is as cutthroat as they come.

But my dad doesn’t see it that way. He expects certain things from me as his male heir. Things he’d never ask from my sister; things Bev would never understand. Part of me would love to confide in her, to let her know what’s being demanded of me, but I know better. Not in a million years would she agree to his special brand of lunacy. It leaves me no choice. I can’t tell her. And I know if this plan blows up in my face, I’ll lose the person who means the most to me in this corrupt world… my sister.

I wish it were simpler, but I have a part to play, an obligation to my father, Killybegs, and the syndicate, and I must abide by the instructions given. I have a task, a job, and a commitment—one I promised I’d keep.

My job is simple—remove Gabriel King from his false throne and take over as the next king, no matter the cost. This is not a matter of the heart, it’s strategic. Will I regret it? Well, that remains to be seen.

* * *

Before long, I’m pulling in my driveway with only one thing on my mind—find Saoirse Ryan and make her mine.

Lost to that train of thought, I almost miss the low mumble coming from somewhere near the well-manicured shrubbery a few feet away. As I insert the key into the lock of the gate-lodge Bev and I share, I halt, straining my ears.

Seconds pass, but there’s nothing other than the soft rustling of leaves. I shake my head and mutter, “I’m hearing things.”

Finally, I push the door open with my foot, and just as I step over the threshold, I hear it again. A low, grumbled groan. “Ahmmnn.”

“Beibhinn?” I call out, even though it’s impossible she arrived home ahead of me.

There’s no way she could have made it back yet. She needs to take the main roads in her jeep, whereas I drove straight across the countryside on my dirt bike, cutting the trip in half.

Reaching for the metal baseball bat we keep just inside the doorway in the umbrella stand, I then click on the outdoor lights, illuminating the place with a flick of a switch. My feet edge forward, and I follow the direction the sound came from as I scan the rest of the area on high alert, searching for any threat. I find nothing.

Right as I am about to turn on my heel, pinning the sound on the little stray kitten Beibhinn likes to feed from time to time, I hear it again. Only now, I make out my grunted name. “Li-Lia-Liam.”

I round the bushes within seconds, and my eyes widen to giant saucers. Curled in a ball on his side, arms concealing his face and wearing nothing but a dirty pair of drenched jeans, lies a defeated, broken Rohan King.

What in the actual fuck?

My eyes scan his vulnerable state. Blood covers his exposed torso, crusting over the raised welts enveloping his entire back, and a mirage of bruising litters his skin in a painful-looking blend of purples and blues. There’s no doubt about it. He has been through hell, and God knows as well as I do, that’s hard to do. Sure, I dislike the guy—hate him, even—but he’s a fucking beast in the cage. Speed, precision, accuracy, he has them all down pat. Whoever did this meant business, and they didn’t hesitate to inflict as much hurt as possible.

Dropping to my hunkers next to him, I use the butt of the bat to help flip him. Without protest, he flops on his back, and his face contorts into a world of pain.

Holy shite! If I thought his back was bad, it has nothing on his face. He’s barely recognisable beneath the swelling. I’m no doctor, but if I had to wager a guess, I’d say his left eye socket looks shattered, his nose seems broken, and that’s not even half of it. The cut above his eyebrow from our fight is open again, pissing blood down his cheek. Not to mention the slice on his bottom lip, crusted over with congealed blood. “Rí, can you hear me?” His movements are subtle, but his chin tips down towards his chest in acknowledgement.

My hands shift to my hair, running through the messy strands on top. “What the hell happened, man?” Realisation slams into me. If Rohan is here… then— “Wait! Where is Saoirse? Wasn’t she with you?”

He groans again, coughing up a lung when he tries to speak through gritted teeth. His mumbles are inaudible grunts, doing nothing to ease the frantic pounding in my chest.

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