Page 56 of Wine & Warlocks

“Where did you need to go in such a rush?” Castor asked Ronan when they had a private moment alone at the pub.

“To see Anu.”

“And what tidbit of information did you obtain from her?”

“Not much,” Ronan replied grimly. “I’m no closer to learning the outcome of our invasion than I was going in, to be sure.” An undefined, fleeting emotion flashed across his uncle’s face, and Ronan’s building sense of unease grew stronger. “You know,” he said flatly. “You learned the truth from Sabrina and Damian last night.”

“I guessed a few of the possible results, but nothing concrete. Damian refused to reveal anything that might alter the future. You know he’s like that.”

“But the plan you relayed is exactly as Damian believes it needs to be enacted, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Jaysus! I hate this uncertainty.” Weary of the entire situation, Ronan scrubbed his face with his hands. “Then I suppose it’ll have to be enough. We’ve nothin’ else to go on.”

They drank in silence as they watched Cian entertain the crowd with his music. The man had the type of voice that could charm the wings off angels, and he used it to seduce locals and foreign travelers alike. Primarily, he played lively Irish songs with a care for tradition, but Cian was always happy to sing a ballad designed to make all the pretty colleens swoon. Yet, if one looked closely, they would see his eyes were always for his new wife, Piper, as they were at that moment.

Whenever Ronan saw her, he was reminded of her mother, Rebecca. Like Bec, Piper was full of salty comebacks and saucy smiles. And the ghosts of the past sometimes rose up when she forgot herself to grin at him. In her amused expression, Ronan was transported back to when Bec was his lover and thought something he’d said was the craic. Piper had been a mere kid then, but now, she was bursting at the seams, ready to have her own child. She’d be present for hers and Cian’s baby, and she’d likely be a better mother than Bec had been.

Bec’s negligence had likely been his fault. He’d shown up at a time when her marriage was all but over, and after one look, he’d fallen madly in love. The kindness she’d shown him was the first he’d truly known in his life, and she became more than his standard dalliance. She’d become his everything. Until she wasn’t. Until the day she confessed she didn’t love him as he loved her and that she intended to return to her husband, Hoyt Thorne.

Crushed, Ronan hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, and he hadn’t bothered to fight his father for supremacy or question Loman’s rule when he had the chance. He’d merely gone through life on autopilot. The only exception had been his desire to mitigate the damage his da tried to inflict on women or children, due to the strict rule that Ronan didn’t make war on the innocent. After years of working at cross-purposes with Loman, he’d found a way to deliver his father to the Witches’ Council.

Loman had never forgiven him.

Now, when Ronan had a reason to live again, when he possessed a love a thousand times greater than what he’d experienced with Bec, he had a mind for caution.

“The Death Dealer,”—he faced Castor as he spoke—“he’s prepared to do what he must, regarding my da?”

“He is.”

With a nod, Ronan turned his attention to Dubheasa.

Her movements were like an exotic dance as she wove her way between the tables and the serving station to pick up and place orders. For the second night in a row, one of the waitstaff had failed to show, and she’d stepped up to help. A few new plonkers attempted to work their wiles on her throughout her shift, but she laughingly pointed in Ronan’s direction as she quipped a quick answer to whatever inquiry they put to her.

As the evening progressed, the patrons grew rowdier, and one or two thought to pinch Dubheasa’s shapely bottom. But an ingrained sixth sense always gave her the advantage and allowed her to dodge a hand when needed. It didn’t upset Ronan in the least as she dumped a pint over one particularly aggressive scut’s head.

As Ronan stood to teach the fecking sod a lesson, she told him to calm himself, using their mental connection.“He’s a harmless eejit, love,”she said.“And he spends half his paycheck here each week, he does.”

When she glanced his way, Ronan shot her an evil grin.“If ya let me kill him, I promise to double what he drops here each week.”

He chuckled as she buried her head in a bar towel to hide her laughter.

“What has you so amused?” Castor asked. “Or should I guess?”

“How did I get so lucky to win her? What did I do that was so fecking grand?” He didn’t add the question plaguing him—How do I keep her safe?

“It’s said the O’Malley clan was cursed with ill luck when the Sword of Goibhniu was stolen by our ancestors.” Castor downed the last of his pint and used the table to steady himself as he climbed to his feet. His pale eyes were despondent as he stared down at Ronan. “But I think it was the O’Connors who were cursed. Never a one has experienced anything other than a fleeting happiness, and it’s doubtful any will.”

“Why does that sound like a miserable fecking prediction?”

“Perhaps it is,” his uncle replied softly.

Skin clammy, Ronan fought the urge to vomit up the beer he’d consumed. The thought of losing what he was building with Dubheasa made him violently ill. “Tell me—”

A commotion by the bar caught their notice, and Ronan turned in time to see Bridget charge around the end of the counter toward a woman with whom Dubheasa stood nose to nose.

The word “Mam” drifted to him, and he looked closer at the black-haired beauty who had caused such animosity from the sisters. Shorter than Dubheasa and wider of hip, she resembled Bridget in stature, but her looks were pure Dubheasa. Perfectly arched brows, wide challenge-filled eyes, a mouth made for smiling, kissing, and scolding. Yet there was a quality about her that was different. A little more cunning, perhaps.

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