Page 100 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

“I’m sorry.”

He snorts. “You’re sorry! Really? That’s all I’m getting?” He stands and starts pacing the floor, running his hand through his hair like the other men in his family do. “I’m disappointed, Jaine. I’m disappointed that you, of all people, thought me so fucking weak that I’d be unable to cope with the reality of my situation. That I would allow my heart to rule my head. Do you have any fucking idea what you taking yourself away did to me? One minute you’re telling me you love me, the next you’re telling me you don’t and that you never want to speak to me again!”

He stops and stares at me, his expression doing nothing to mask his pain. He yanks on his hair as he lets out a roar of frustration. More tears fill my eyes when he drops to his knees defeatedly and lets out a heart-wrenching sob.

“You fucking gutted me, darlin’! I loved you so much, and you ripped out my fucking heart!” His voice is wracked with pain and emotion as he drops his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he silently cries.

He’s crying for me. For him. For us. I want to cry for us too, but this isn’t about me. It’s about him.

His anger. His grief. His truth.

I kneel beside him on the floor and try to wrap my arms around him, but he pushes me away.

“You don’t get to fix this with a hug, Jaine. All these years, I thought I didn’t matter. You destroyed me with a handful of fucking words, and then you walked away without a backward glance. It led to me living a life of deceit. It led to me pretending to be my brother so I didn’t have to let you go. A pretense that almost ruined his fucking life too.”

We stay where we are, both kneeling, both within touching distance. I’m so close I can feel the roulette wheel of his emotions spin. I know exactly which color it’s going to stop on next.

Leaving me kneeling, he stands and paces the floor once more. What he’s about to say will lead straight on to the next reveal. I know it will.

“If you loved me back then, why did you fuck my brother?”

He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly. I can feel the red-hot rage emanating from him.

He’s getting more and more wound up, so much so the room is starting to feel decidedly smaller. I’ve never seen this side of Irish before. Maybe I should be worried about being trapped in here with him, but I’m not.

I stand and walk across the room before turning around and looking at him. “I didn’t.” I tilt my chin and wait. I can’t blame anyone for this next reveal. This one is all on me.

He stops pacing and stares at me with eyes that have never been bluer. A deathly silence follows as we stare at each other. He knows what atrocities lurk behind my gaze. I swallow as I’m finally allowed to delve into the part of his soul I’ve never seen before.

I don’t see individual faces. All I see is blood. Flowing. Vibrant. Pulsing. A sea of red made up of so many diseased souls they could never be fucking counted.

He doesn’t make a move toward me. It’s the distance that scares me most.

Scared.

Cocky. Handsome. Funny. My Irish. My confidant. What exactly is he? Right now, I don’t know. Do I even want to know?

Psychopath.

I don’t speak. I can’t. How to say what I’ve wanted to say for over two years?

My crime. My punishment. My confession. My penance.

“What do you mean?”

I walk toward him until we’re almost nose to nose before pushing my hair back from behind my left ear. His gaze is instantly drawn to the tattoo, the scrolled letter A now accompanied by the much smaller J.

He knows.

Gripping my chin painfully, he slowly turns my head and pushes back the hair covering my right ear. Time stands still as he takes in the scrolled letter I, accompanied by the much smaller F.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

PADRAIG

St. Peter’s Church, Upper East Side, New York

After all thoseyears of being envious that Ace had his initial inked on her perfect skin, my brand marks her, too, now.

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