Page 94 of Vicious Hearts

By necessity.

It’s not quite like Ares and Neve, when we had to “sell” their relationship to truly heal the blood feud between the Drakos and Kildare families. No one has to think Una and I are fucking Romeo and Juliet or anything.

But theydoall have to acknowledge the marriage—both its legitimacy, and Una’s legitimacy as Seamus’ next of kin. Considering no one knew she even existed until recently, I’ve come prepared for that with a DNA test comparing her to my late half-brother Declan, who was Seamus’ nephew.

I used a blood test we had on record for Declan, and a strand of Una’s hair I took from her brush. And the test conclusively proves she’s an O’Conor. Ergo, per the old ways, thisshould—and will, I’ll make sure of that—end the bullshit and the various calls for rebellion.

Of course, the longer I keep telling myself this is all about “mending cracks”—that it’s all a business obligation—the more I want to crack myownhead open.

Because I know damn fucking well that isn’t true.

So I switch to other, more palatable lies for myself: I tell myself that I’m doing it because of the raw, dark, and dangerous lust she ignites inside of me. I replay in my mind, over and over, the way she whimpers and moans so eagerly and submissively under my punishing touch, to convince myselfthatis the pull here: a purely physical addiction.

Better. But even that isn’t the full truth.

It’s the way she looks over the edge into the abyss because it calls to her, just like I do. The way she’s different, and hides the monstrousness in her, also like I do.

The way that the darkness in her somehow connects with and mimics mine in a way I’ve never felt before. The way all of that simultaneously sets me ablaze and soothes the roaring inside.

And fucked if I have any idea at all what that means.

The reception—held in an event space behind O’Bannon’s, an Irish pub that the Kildare family has historically done business out of—slowly fills with people. When we went down this “marriage to heal the divide” road with Neve and Ares, the reception was filled with almost an exact fifty-fifty mix each of Kildare and Drakos family and tributary families.

This time, aside from the immediate Drakos family—Ares, his siblings, and their hawkish grandmother Dimitra—the guest list is all from the Kildare side, and our vassal families. The McCormick, Kearney, and O’Riordan families all pass by where Una and I are standing side-by-side, and pay tribute and homage by shaking first my hand and then Una’s on bended knee.

At times, it’s eye-rollingly medieval, as if I’m some fucking lord of the manor or a ruler that the lessor lords of my fiefdom have to pay tribute to. Except, thatiskind of exactly what this is.

My world isnota democracy of any kind. This is very much an absolute monarchy.

And I am very much their mad king.

A band plays traditional Irish music in the corner, the lead singer crooning into her microphone with an especially whiskey-soaked voice. It was all Neve’s idea, actually—meant as an extra show of respect to the senior heads of some of these households.

Over the sound of fiddles and fifes, and lyrics about hardship and misery that the Irish do so love for some bizarre reason to play at purportedlyhappyevents like weddings, I shake hands and mend the friction, one house at a time.

Now the fences just have to last. At least for six months, until our agreed-upon dramatic not-so-happy ending.

Which I’m not actually sure I’ll be honoring. But we’ll see.

The muscles in my jaw are beginning to ache from the fucking smiling so much when a soft hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me aside. Neve grins as she hands me a glass of whiskey.

“Here. I know mugging for the cameras and kissing babies isn’t exactly your favorite part of the job.”

I grimace, gratefully taking a slug from the glass. “Playing the politician was always your father’s forte, not mine.”

She chuckles as her eyes slide past me, to Una. “Look, I know the dress—”

“It’s fine.” I try to sound appropriately annoyed.

The truth is, it’s more than fine.

It’s alotmore than fine.

Yes, I know her decision to go with all-black for the wedding was meant as a fuck-you: to me, to the entire situation, to marriage in general, maybe. I could see that plainly in the smirk on her face when she stepped out into the gardens behind the Kildare brownstone.

But if she was trying to piss me off, she’s failed. And I know she wasn’ttryingto entice me, or to bait me, or turn me on.

But she’s very much succeeded in accomplishingallthose things.

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