Page 95 of House of Soot

The rage burns hot and fast. "You don't know what she'd want. She died in my bed because I wasn't there to save her. Because I was too busy playing video games with you assholes while the Keans set our house on fire."

Silence fills the room. We all remember that night. The smoke, the screams, the way our world burned down around us. But they don't understand. They didn't lose what I lost.

"I'll do what needs to be done for the family," I say, trying to rein in my rage. "But don't ask me for more than that. I won't share my bed with another woman. Not now, not ever."

The room is quiet until Phoenix checks his watch. "It's time.”

My brothers gather around me, their presence both comforting and suffocating. This is what we fought for, what we killed for, the chance to take back what's ours and make the Keans pay.

Blaise hands me another drink. I down it, then straighten my shoulders and nod. "Let's get this over with."

I walk down the hallway to marry Hannah O'Donnell, who initially was supposed to marry Ronan Kean. Instead, Blaise put several bullets in him. Of course, that was the plan all along. I just hadn’t realized that with Ronan gone, and John O’Donnell wanting a marriage to solidify the alliance, I’d be the one having to get married.

Phoenix keeps saying we're lucky O'Donnell agreed to the switch, that he'd rather align with us than the Keans. But standing here in this suit, about to marry a woman I've never met, it doesn't feel like luck. It feels like another sacrifice on the altar of revenge.

Ten years we've waited. Ten years of planning, hiding in the shadows. Now we're finally ready to step into the light and take back what's ours. All it costs is my freedom to choose whom I marry.

I remind myself that this marriage isn't about love. It's about power. Strategy. The final piece falling into place so we can destroy the men who murdered our parents. I can align myself with a wife without betraying Meghan as long as it stays strictly business, right?

I take my place at the altar. John O’Donnell, Hannah’s father, scrutinizes me. I manage a smile. To be honest, I doubt he cares much how I treat Hannah. The fucker was going to marry her off to Ronan, a shithead if there ever was one.

He nods and heads out to the vestibule of the tiny church. It’s a risk to marry in public. The Keans could severely knock out their competition if they showed up today. But Phoenix and John have assured us all that not even the Army could get to us.

The double doors open and John reappears with his daughter. Hannah steps into the opening and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Flint is right. She’s stunning in ivory lace, her red hair a blazing halo around her face.

But what hits me hardest is how young she looks. Then I remember. She’s eighteen. Christ, she's barely more than a child.

My stomach twists with unease. At twenty-nine, I'm far too old for her. She should be going to college, living her life, not being married off to a broken man consumed by revenge.

Hannah lifts her chin as she walks toward me, green eyes bright with determination. There's no fear in her gaze, no hesitation, just pure, unwavering confidence that I can’t help but admire. After all, she’s being forced into this marriage as well.

Her father escorts her down the aisle, and when she reaches me, she takes my hand. Her palm is warm against mine, fingers threading through my own like she's done it a thousand times before. The gesture is so natural, so trusting, for a moment, I go with it. And then the guilt slices through me.

"Hi," she whispers, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

I try to smile back, but it feels more like a grimace. Up close, her youth is even more apparent, fresh-faced and glowing with life, while I feel ancient, weathered by a decade of hatred and loss.

The priest begins speaking, but all I can think about is how wrong it is for this vibrant young woman to be tied to someone as damaged as me. Someone who can't give her the love and devotion she deserves because I already love someone else.

The priest's words blur together as I stare straight ahead, refusing to look at the woman beside me. I wish I drank more earlier because the whisky I’ve had barely dulls my senses.

Hannah takes my hand for the ring exchange. Her touch sends an unwelcome jolt through my system. I repeat the words the officiant speaks. I slip the ring on her finger, all the while pretending this is some bad dream.

"You may kiss the bride."

I finally turn to face her, and my breath catches. Her red waves frame a heart-shaped face, and those green eyes… Christ, they're like emeralds.

Hannah tilts her chin up, waiting. I lean in, intending a quick brush of lips, an expected but passionless gesture. Instead, the moment our mouths meet, electricity crackles between us. Her lips are soft, yielding, and taste of mint. My body betrays me, responding instantly, craving more.

I jerk back, horror and desire warring inside me. Guilt crashes over me. Guilt for wanting another woman, guilt for betraying Meghan's memory.

The music plays, and thank fuck, we can get out of there. Well, sort of. There is still a reception. The minute we get into the car to take us to the O’Donnell home for the reception, I’m pouring a drink. When I arrive at the reception, I make a beeline to the bar. I’m desperate to numb this attraction before it destroys what's left of my sanity.

“Time for the happy couple’s first dance,” John announces. Happy couple?

The band strikes up a slow melody as Hannah steps into my arms for our first dance. I try to hold her at arm's length, maintaining as much space between us as the dance allows.

"You're a good dancer," she says, following my lead with natural grace. I’m acting like an oaf so it’s probably a surprise that I have basic dance skills.

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