Beware the Wicked Heir

by Mara McQueen

  "I guess we both had shit childhoods, then," Kieran said.

  They both laughed, but it sounded off.

  Olivia got up and rummaged through her things—and Addie’s—and wasted no time putting on clean clothes.

  She looked at her baton, nestled between the candles on the nightstand. It would come in handy in case Martin decided he wanted some candid shots of people sleeping.

  But this no lights thing wasn’t ideal. “How can you read like this?”

  “My associates have sent me some documents for my current project which needed perusing immediately. The world doesn’t stop because I lack electricity.”

  Olivia snuffed the itch to ask more as soon as it flashed inside her mind. Kieran had a job and didn’t squander the family fortune. That's as much as she needed to know, though she wanted more. So much more.

  “Maria would never agree to send me something on paper,” she said, distancing herself from any curious temptation.

  “We don’t use anything that can be tracked digitally.” He wrinkled his nose as if Olivia had suggested they communicate through Dadaistic scripts. “And this method has one obvious, long-forgotten advantage.”

  He folded the piece of paper in two, bringing it closer to one of the candles. The flames pricked a corner. The paper started spewing little black flecks, while the smell became unbearable. Kieran let it drop onto the silver platter underneath, where the fire consumed the letter in seconds. “Nobody can read ashes, now can they?”

  “Just how secret is this new project of yours?”

  “New is a relative term. I’ve been working on it for a year and three months. And very secret.”

  A pleasant piano tune floated from downstairs, the song more cheerful than the house warranted.

  “It’s beautiful,” Olivia said.

  A shadow passed Kieran’s face. “Nan always had a thing for the classics.”

  Olivia's face lit up. “Let’s go downstairs and listen. I’m sure she’d love that.” Kieran would, too.

  He clenched his jaw. “Right now, she wouldn’t. Whenever she plays this song...she doesn’t remember who I am, and having more than one person around stresses her. Emma’s with her,” he went on, each word sounding as if ripped from his heart. “Nan said Emma wouldn’t budge from her side when she was at the institute. Only one on the entire staff who paid any attention to her as she deserved.”

  “I thought Emma was a recent hire. Mostly as her caretaker,” Olivia said. She knew it wasn’t the best thing to say at the moment, but her mind went blank—intimate discussions, not her forte.

  The song turned more upbeat, faster, dramatic.

  “Emma’s insanely overqualified for this job, and she has the salary to prove it. But she’s the only one Nan accepts around the clock, and her background check was spotless, even by my standards. She had some weird business with her lousy parents during high school, but she did very well for herself. I know living at Bolton Manor isn’t ideal for most, but she’ll leave this place with enough money to do whatever she wants with her life. Nan likes having her around. And Bertha. Awful cooking, but she complements the disgruntled air of the house. And she cares for Nan like they’re sisters.”

  “She does indeed.” But who was caring for Kieran? Addie and Darryl were a thorn in his side, Emma and Bertha were so focused on Mrs. Bolton, they didn't pay much mind to anyone else, and Martin and Sarah not only lived somewhere else, but they irked Kieran when they were here.

  No wonder he wanted to spend time with Olivia. She was the only one who tried to see him. The real him.

  They fell silent, listening to the song, both lost in their own thoughts.

  “Tell me something,” he said after a while and Olivia turned her full attention to him. “Say I hadn’t signed the contract. Would you have regretted coming here?”

  Olivia’s shoulders sagged. Of course she wouldn’t have. A part of her would’ve been disappointed, yes, but she had met him. “How can you ask that? You’re amazing.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “I can barely tolerate this place myself, with all the scurrying around, and the gloominess, and the—”

  Olivia cut him off by pressing her lips tightly against his, swallowing the rest of his words and trying to convey hers.

  Kieran cupped her face with one of his large hands and deepened the languid kiss, rolling his head in sync with hers. He pressed Olivia into the mattress, molding his body to hers.

  Downstairs, the music ended abruptly.

  Crawl Through Emotional Hell

  The large lopsided white cake and the sweet taste it promised did nothing to soothe the weird atmosphere in the dining room.

  The clinks of ice against glasses resounded in the hollow space, increasing the tension with each sip.

  Olivia didn’t know what had gotten into everyone else, but the fact that she was leaving in a few hours weighed heavily on her—and Kieran.

  When morning had come and they'd left the safety of his room with a long kiss and whispers that still lingered in the back of her mind, he had become distant. As soon as he saw Mrs. Bolton, he’d plastered a wide smile onto his face, and had brought it back up whenever the old woman looked his way. But when she wasn’t looking, a grimace pulled at his beautiful face.

  As for Olivia, she powerlessly let the situation fester.

  She couldn’t give him what they both wanted. She wouldn’t.

  Uprooting her life, even for a few days, a few weeks, however long it took for Kieran to tire of whatever the two of them had, wasn’t possible.

  Sure, Olivia could let herself indulge for a while, pretend their situation wasn’t completely and utterly doomed, and then crawl through emotional hell.

  Alone. And bitter, so freaking bitter.

  Because even if they did continue this connection that seared them both after she left, Kieran might change his mind real quick once he got back to civilization, and supermodels started throwing themselves at him.

  “So,” Martin rubbed his hands together. “How about we light this masterpiece and sing a song, ey?”

  Bless his simple heart, this was his third attempt at lightening the atmosphere. And while Olivia was still wary of him and Sarah, she appreciated the gesture all the same. Even more so when Mrs. Bolton’s face lit up.

  “Yes, please do. It looks scrumptious,” she said, scooting to the edge of her wheelchair.

  Bertha dutifully brought in the multicolored candles—twenty-three, as per the birthday girl’s wishes—and Emma proceeded to light them with such haste, she almost toppled the cake over. Thankfully, Bertha restrained herself from any comments, making her displeasure known by her usual weapon of choice—a wrinkly sneer.

  Everybody around the table got up. Kieran took Emma’s place behind Mrs. Bolton; the girl merely frowned in response, sliding over to the side, fiddling with the flower pendant on her necklace. He clasped his hands on top of Mrs. Bolton’s shoulders, giving her a warm smile and a kiss on top of her head.

  “Now, we might be a bit rusty,” Sarah said and chuckled. “But here it goes. Haaappy birthdaaaay to you...”

  Everybody joined in the chorus. Nobody’s gusto compared to Martin’s, but apart from Darryl, who seemed to barely open his mouth to spew out a few words, everyone’s affection shone through. But only Kieran beamed at Mrs. Bolton with utter, unmasked devotion. He looked like he couldn’t breathe without her.

  They recited the song as best they could, all of them stumbling at the name. It came out as a jumble between ‘Nan’, ‘Dorothea’, and ‘Mrs. Bolton’, but hey, the thought counted.

  “Presents!” Mrs. Bolton clapped her hands in the middle of the song, startling and silencing everyone.

  Olivia panicked. Surely, Mrs. Bolton didn’t expect something from her. The only things Olivia had in her purse were some breath mints, a half-empty deodorant and about three spritzes worth of the fancy perfume her colleag
ues had gifted her on her own birthday—most likely Milo's doing, that man had a nose like a bloodhound and had hated Olivia's last bargain-bin perfume.

  As everyone around her got up—even Addie and Darryl, for fuck’s sake—Olivia remained uncomfortably behind, under Mrs. Bolton’s expectant gaze. She mentally prepared herself to make up the lamest excuse of her life, when Kieran placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered.

  Martin and Sarah gave Mrs. Bolton an engraved chess set, which had apparently belonged to the detective in charge of the Scarlet Stalker file, whoever the hell that sick bastard had been. Bertha presented her with a photo album of Australia, which Mrs. Bolton gushed over for several minutes.

  Addie and Darryl gave her a pearl necklace.

  “Lovely, Nan. It looks just like the one you recently misplaced.” Kieran narrowed his eyes at the couple, who didn’t even try to look ashamed. “This one’s from Olivia.”

  Olivia raised her eyebrows. He had bought a gift on her behalf. Someone thinking of her needs before she even became aware of them was still a foreign feeling for her, but, damn, all she wanted right now was to kiss Kieran until she left him breathless.

  “Oh, poetry.” Mrs. Bolton unwrapped the gift, revealing a small book with a red cover. “Perfect for an old soul like me. I can’t read a word of it, what with my bad eyes and all, but I love collecting them. How did you know? Thank you.”

  Olivia cringed. “You’re very welcome.”

  Kieran’s actual present brought the woman to tears. The old framed black and white photo showed a very young Mrs. Bolton typing and talking over the phone at the same time, exhaustion plain on her face. She turned the photo around, her fingers gliding over the old paper. In one corner, someone had written ‘Get them’. Over and over again. They looked like they’d been scribbled by a toddler.

  “I—I remember this. The editor—oh, what was his name? Keane? Kaid? Kent? Anyway, a real imbecile. Kept saying women should stick to writing recipes and domestic advice, not dreaming of Pulitzers. Proved him wrong, now didn’t I?”

  “You did. Happy birthday, Nan.” Kieran kissed her cheek lovingly. "And this is a promise from me to you. I’m going to finish what you started, even if it kills me."

  Olivia had no clue what he was talking about, but Mrs. Bolton understood him well enough. She grabbed him with surprising strength and hugged him tightly.

  “What would I do without you?” she whispered, voice shaking. Even Olivia felt a little choked up and averted her gaze. “But if you really want to make me happy, you’ll tame that bird’s nest on your head. Really, Kieran, you’re way past your rebellious teens, and you couldn’t pull this hairstyle off even then.”

  He chuckled and gave her hands a tight squeeze, then sat down. He dodged Olivia’s gaze once again. Emma retook her position, resting her hands on top of Mrs. Bolton’s wheelchair as Bertha came in and cut the cake, making sure to deposit an extra-large piece on Darryl’s plate.

  The mood had definitely improved, but the people around the table were still acting strangely. Between Addie watching Kieran’s every move like a hawk, to Martin’s exaggerated moans of delight with each bite of cake, and Olivia trying hard to resist the urge to get Kieran’s attention, it made for a very bizarre gathering.

  “This is lovely, Dorothea,” Sarah said. It might’ve been Olivia’s imagination, but a bit of fake blood still clung to the back of the woman’s left ear.

  “Quite, quite,” Martin said, scooping up some more cake and stuffing it inside his mouth. A bit of frosting got trapped in his mustache. “You have to give me the recipe. Won’t leave without it.”

  “It was Emma’s doing, dear. She’s the one you need to congratulate,” Mrs. Bolton said, taking another sip of her brandy. Behind her, Emma bowed her head, a barely contained smile tugging the corner of her lips.

  “I might be wrong,” Addie started, licking tiny crumbs from her pouty lips.

  “Then you might consider keeping that lone thought to yourself,” Kieran said, not bothering to look in her direction. His attention ran from his plate to Mrs. Bolton.

  “Wasn’t Kieran supposed to buy the cake?” Addie went on, sickly sweet and menacing. “Or was he soooo busy he couldn’t find the time to grant his grandmother’s simple wish?”

  Kieran clenched his fists around his glass and brought it to his lips, downing it in one go. “I was under the impression free-loader number two—” He pointed at Darryl, who was busy cutting himself another piece of cake, seemingly oblivious to the conversation around him. “—would take care of it. You know, since I asked him to, gave him the money, and reminded him three times.”

  “It was your job.”

  “No, my job is to support all of this,” he gestured around, his sharp grin lacking any and all warmth, “while you sit on your ass and shag that waste of oxygen all day long.”

  “Language!” Mrs. Bolton said sternly, looking at Kieran like any miffed grandmother.

  “Sorry, Nan,” he mumbled and slumped back in his seat, running a hand through his hair, the perfect picture of a reprimanded nephew.

  Domesticity at its finest. Aside from the crippling guilt seeping out of Kieran’s jittery moves.

  Olivia glared at Addie. For heaven’s sake, the man had given up his life to be close to his grandmother and take care of her. He deserved a couple of days to himself.

  “Yeah, I’m sure you have a lot of boring stuff piled up on your desk that you just have to do all night long,” Addie said, her vicious gaze meeting Olivia’s.

  Olivia pursed her lips and ignored Addie’s pathetic jab. Honestly, if she gave into every bad thing said about her, she wouldn’t have time to do anything else with her life.

  Unfortunately, Kieran wasn’t so flippant. He slammed his hand on the table, the glasses clinking noisily. “Do you want to get thrown out?”

  Addie chuckled, not bothering to disguise her glee. “Uhh, testy are we?”

  “Now, now, Kieran. That’s no way to treat family,” Mrs. Bolton admonished, her small hand gliding on the table toward his. He grasped her palm, patting it gently. Mrs. Bolton beamed at him. “You know I love you both just the same.”

  Kieran’s face fell. The smile froze on his lips, his watery eyes widening. Beneath the table, one of his legs started shaking uncontrollably.

  He tried to keep his anguish hidden, swallowing down the reply that died on his lips with Mrs. Bolton’s innocent statement, but his heartbreak reverberated around the table.

  “I love you too, Nan,” he whispered, his voice stifled with emotion.

  Pushing aside her useless ego, Olivia snaked her hand in Kieran’s lap and grasped his leg. She gave him a reassuring squeeze, uncaring who saw her or what venom Addie decided to throw her way.

  She might have to finally throttle the bitch once Mrs. Bolton retired for the night.

  Kieran’s shaking stopped after a few seconds. He made no move to pull his leg out of Olivia’s tentative grasp.

  “How long are you planning to stay, Olivia?” Sarah asked in a too-sweet voice, clearly upset by the exchange. She meant well.

  Kieran’s muscles tensed up even more under Olivia’s arm. She rubbed small patterns against his knee. “Today, but the details are still a bit fuzzy. You?”

  Martin sighed dramatically. “A few days at most. I doubt we’ll find anything worthwhile by then. We do have that video, though.”

  “Sorry about scaring you, by the way,” Sarah said, leaning closer to Olivia. “We actually thought it might’ve been a nice surprise for everyone.”

  Behind all the crazy, they really were good people.

  “No problem. I was just a bit...taken aback.” Olivia smiled, her hands still on Kieran.

  “Dreadfully sorry about that,” Martin said, his pudgy face ridden with remorse. “I can send you a copy if—”

  The rest of Martin’s tasteless offer was swallowed up by a loud noise echoing in the room. Something between a howl, a yelp
, and an anguished scream cut through the wind and rain. Everyone’s eyes darted to the tall windows. Kieran’s hand shot out to reach Olivia’s.

  “Think it was a wolf?” Sarah asked, clinging to her husband’s arm.

  “Probably. They’re nasty buggers during the full moon, aren’t they?”

  Olivia half-expected Martin to go on a tirade about werewolves and metamorphoses, but he thankfully refrained.

  “I think I’m a bit tired,” Mrs. Bolton announced, rubbing her eyes. Emma immediately sprung into action, quickly gathering Mrs. Bolton’s plates and silverware, precisely as the old woman instructed.

  “Did you enjoy your birthday, Nan?” Kieran asked, tilting his head to the side.

  “Very much, dear. We should do this again tomorrow,” she announced cheerfully and rested her hands in her lap. “I’m all wiped out, time for a respite.”

  “Then allow me the pleasure of escorting you to your room,” Kieran said and got up.

  But Emma grasped the back of Mrs. Bolton’s wheelchair quickly. “No need, Mr. Bolton, I’ll do it. We have our own special nap ritual.”

  “Emma does know how to get rid of the cold,” Mrs. Bolton said, her forehead creasing. “It’s always so cold.”

  “Don’t worry Mrs. Bolton,” Emma said, already wheeling her away. “I can make a cup of tea to warm you up.”

  They disappeared behind the corner, Kieran’s forlorn gaze never leaving them.

  Happy

  “She never mentioned being cold. Not even once,” Kieran mumbled to himself as he rushed into his study, eyebrows slanted in barely disguised concern. He dashed to the toolbox, flinging tools out of the way.

  “What are you doing?” Olivia asked as she stopped behind him. All she wanted to do was run her hands up and down his back until his tense muscles unwound. Instead, she clenched and unclenched her hands by her side.

  “The heater is already going on full blast, so I need to find a way to get the furnace in the basement to cooperate.”

  “Why don’t you just call someone to do that?” Olivia asked, acutely aware of her hypocrisy. She barely let other people open doors for her, but she wanted everyone else to ask for help when dealing with things outside of their expertise. Because that was the healthy, logical thing to do.