Page 13 of Sunrise Malice

I lost that when Cormac died. Maybe I never really had it to begin with.

But marrying Julien is my chance to carve out a space for myself.

“Are you sure about that?” Ronan asks finally. “I’ll be honest, this is what I wanted, but I need to make sure you’re making this decision because it’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” I tell him. “But I think it’s a good idea anyway. I think it’ll get me what I want in the end.”

“Which is what?” he asks softly.

“A life.” I stand up and nod at him. “You can tell Julien if you want or I can give him a call. Whatever’s easier.”

“You should talk to your future husband.” He sits back again, studying me. “For what it’s worth, I think Julien’s a better person than he lets on.” He frowns slightly. “For the most part, anyway.”

I think Julien’s a selfish prick and he only wants to marry me for his own selfish reasons. But that’s fine, because I don’t need him to love me.

I don’t say any of that though. Instead, I move toward the door but pause before leaving. “I have a condition.”

“What’s that?”

“My father can’t be involved in any of this.” I don’t look at Ronan. A spear of shame jabs down into my guts. Maybe I’m just as bad as I think Julien is if I’m willing to cut my own father out of this situation. “This is just between us, okay?”

“If that’s how you want it, that’s fine by me.”

“My dad’s not at my wedding, he’s not part of the deal, and he’s not in my life.” I grip the doorknob. “That’s all I want.”

“Brianne, if you need a place to stay?—”

“No, thanks.” I glare back at him. “Those are my conditions.”

“Whatever you want,” he says gently, head tilted to the side, a serious frown on his face. I know what he’s thinking: another Irish girl with a shitty drunk father looking for a way out of her miserable situation. I’m practically a cliché at this point, but Ronan doesn’t know me and he has no clue what I’ve been through. And I don’t plan on telling him anytime soon.

I get out of there before his confusion turns to pity.

The TV’son so loud I can hear it from the basement. Another load of laundry moved from the washer to the dryer, and it’s all my father’s stuff: soiled shirts, gross underwear, stained pants. The guy doesn’t have a real job and he still somehow makes a mess of himself every day.

“Brianne!” His shout drifts down the steps like daggers into my skull. “Brianne, I need another fucking beer! Where the fuck are you?” I hear him stomping around the kitchen, which means he got his lazy ass up off the couch when he realized I couldn’t hear him.

I wait until the creaking of the floorboards fades away. The basement is cool and quiet, though it smells a little musty. In the corner is a plastic tub filled with my old gymnastics medals and ribbons, and sometimes I like to pick them up and look through them, just to remind myself that I wasn’t always such a useless sack of garbage.

Tonight’s not that kind of night though. I have another load to put in the wash—my own stuff this time—and dishes to clean upstairs. My back hurts and my wrists ache, but at least I don’t have Cormac’s crap to do anymore.

That’s the best part of my brother getting himself killed: there’s less housework for me to do.

I should be a better sister. I should be a better daughter. But I’ve lived in this house my entire life and there hasn’t been a single day where either of those assholes ever tried to be better brothers and fathers.

“Brianne, what the fucking fuck are you doing?”

I flinch at the sound of my father’s voice. He’s standing at the top of the basement steps. His shadow grows long and thick across the concrete floor.

“Laundry,” I call back. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I was yelling for you. And the kitchen’s a fucking wreck.”

You’re the one that demanded a freaking lasagna, did you think it was going to be easy and simple?“I’ll be up in a second.”

“Better fucking be.” His shadow lingers for another minute before he turns away and leaves me alone.

I stay in the basement, leaning up against the washing machine, looking at my phone. I’m so close to getting out of this place. All I have to do is keep moving forward with my plan. Dad’s on his seventh beer, which means he’s past the hitting stage—he only ever tries to slap me around between beers four and six—and I should be safe for the night. He’ll still yell at me and call me a worthless cunt and all that good stuff, but at least I won’t have bruises tomorrow.

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