Page 198 of Morally Black Betrothal
“I have to go back to Vermont,” I told him. “My dad, Kylie—they need me. I can’t stay here anymore. I have to be at the farm.”
To my surprise, he only looked mildly confused. “You didn’t think I knew that?”
I blinked. “Youalreadyknew that?” It wasn’t like we had a formal conversation about it, even on the drive back to Boston.
“I didn’t think we needed to discuss it. Of course you’re needed back there. And unless it’s not where you want to be—in which case we’ll task Ruth with hiring a general manager and accountant and whoever else is necessary to get the farm back up on its feet—that’s where I need to be too.” He rubbed his hands up and down my shoulders. “I walked away from Blackguard today.”
I gawked, certain I’d heard wrong. “You did what?”
“I left the company. Well, to be completely accurate, they required my resignation, but I went in planning to hand it in anyway.” A strand of hair came loose from my ponytail in the wind, and he tucked it behind my ear. “I thought my family’s company was where I belonged, but that was before I learned what home really was. That was before I found my home is you.”
“But your company, your work?—”
“Sucked me dry and would keep doing it for life if I let them.” He pulled me close again, resting his forehead against mine. “I meant what I said in the bakery. I want it all with you, angel. I want to wake up in that farmhouse every morning. I want to learn to milk a fuckin’ cow. I want to teach Kylie how to watch birds and make a family of our own and listen to our four or five kids running up and down those creaky fuckin’ steps until I’m old and gray. So long as I have you.”
“Four or five?” My mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
Brendan chuckled. It was one of the sweetest sounds I’d ever heard. “I told you, baby. Barefoot and pregnant.”
I poked him in the chest, laughing despite myself now. “And baking bread.”
“And baking bread.” He caught my hand and brought it to his lips.
“And birdwatching.”
“Definitely birdwatching.”
“And making love.”
He yanked me close. “Every chance we get.”
Then Brendan Black kissed me until the sun had fully set over the city and John and Abigail had settled into their nest for the night. Beyond them, in the mountains just a few hours from Boston, a life waited for us full of bread and birds and babies and joy.
Brendan released me long enough to sweep me up into his arms. “Are you ready to get started?”
I kissed him again. “With you? Always.”
EPILOGUE: THE CRIMES OF DIONYSUS
Ronan
You’re up, boy. And remember: nobody gets the best of a Black. That’s a fuckin’ order.
I sat up in a rush, fifteen-hundred-thread-count sheets pooling at my waist and heart thumping like a hyperactive rabbit before all the blood rushed from my head.
One breath. Then two.
It took me five to remember where I was. My suite in Vegas, not a backyard in Southie. In a plush king-sized bed with a view of the Strip, not shoved out of a chair and into the ring with one of my brothers.
It was always the same fucking nightmare. A brief memory from the family’s last days in Southie. I was maybe five or six, watching my brothers punch the shit out of each other while my father and his cronies egged them on and placed bets. After Owen’s two front teeth had literally been knocked out, the old man had shoved me into the center to fight Brendan next.
I tell you, being the Black family fuckup-slash-fixer would be a hell of a lot easier if my stupid brain wasn’t still scared of fighting a nine-year-old.
I usually woke by the first punch.
Usually.
Gradually, my heart slowed, my breath eased back to normal, and lucid thoughts returned.
