Page 3 of The Merciless King

And Dad was also right; I grew up to be huge. I’m six foot three and 220 pounds of ripped muscle. Though the latter wasn’t so much genetic, as it was a lot of hard fucking work at the gym.

And yeah, I’m now a Marine.

Proud as hell.

And shipping out next week.

Hence, the family get together in the Hamptons. My two older brothers, Liam and Gareth, have never been as protective of Amy as I am, but I figure it’s the age difference.

Mom and Tracey were born ten years apart, hence us kids being so different in age.

I kept my promise to Mom, and more importantly, Amy.

Yes, I’ve dated girls—heck, I was the captain of the football team, so there were a lot of choices—but I’ve always found time for my little cousin.

The Marine Corps takes up more time than girls, honestly. And now it’s taking me away from her completely. But Amy’s a sophomore now and more interested in boys than she is in me.

No fucking way am I introducing her to any of my Marine buddies, though. They are too old for her and with all that blonde hair and her blue eyes, I know a few of them would think she was older than she was.

So that’s a hell no.

Christ, maybe I do act like her dad.

Amy sips my beer again and this time, I turn, blocking the view of her from the house and take it from her.

“Buttercup, for fuck's sakes. You want to end up like your mom?” I snap, instantly regretting my words.

But I worry. Aunt Tracey is still grieving. AKA drinking and, if my instincts are right, there is more than just alcohol happening in that house.

Amy’s face pales and she takes a step away. “Nice, Brax. Real nice.”

Damn it.

“Fuck. Amy. Come back.” I glance at the steaks and figure I have a minute or two before they burn. “Amy!”

I go after her as she heads down the section to the beach.

“Buttercup!”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not a kid!” she cries.

I jog until I’m in front of her and turn to face her. “Sorry.”

She turns her face away, but I reach out and place my hands on her shoulders. I force her to stop walking and she drops her head.

“You’re right.” Her voice is small. “I’m going to end up just like her.”

“I’m not fucking right. You won’t.” I lift her chin and hold her eyes. “She’s griev—”

“No, she’s an addict. An alcoholic. She’s not grieving, and we all need to stop telling that lie,” Amy snaps at me.

Damn.

When did she get so wise and grown up?

I press my lips together, still holding her gaze, then figure it’s better to just be honest about it even if our parents aren’t. I nod. “Yeah. She is.”

Tears pool in Amy’s eyes. I’ve always hated seeing her cry, and it’s happened way too many times since her dad died. Way too many times.

---