Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  I grab a tissue from the box by his bedside and help him sit up more so that he can cough into it.

  The moment he finishes coughing, though, he cringes with pain and lets loose a soft groan.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Stomach cramp,” he grunts.

  “It’s a side effect of the morphine, Pa,” I explain. “Give it some time and the pain will get better.”

  “Morphine?” he asks in confusion.

  It didn’t make sense to me when Rhys explained it at first, either. Plus, the morphine is addling his brain and making him disoriented.

  “Do you remember what happened, Pa?” I ask gently.

  “No… no…”

  “It’s okay,” I say, gripping his hand to counteract the nervous energy wafting off him. “Don’t worry about it. We can talk about it later.”

  “Why did I need morphine?” he asks again. He sounds so scared. Like a child.

  “You didn’t,” I tell him. I wish there was an easy to way to say this. To tell him why he’s here, why he’s in this condition. “You were injected with it. To make a point.”

  He frowns, clearly even more confused by my answer.

  “We’ll talk about it another time, okay, Pa?”

  He shakes his head. “Saoirse… Saoirse, girl… Does this have something to do with Tristan?”

  I cringe, but I can’t bring myself to deny it either. “I think so, Pa.”

  His face pales a little and his expression twists. “I remember… I remember some things… It’s hazy…”

  “Don’t strain yourself,” I insist. “Sleep now. When you’re feeling up to it, we’ll talk.”

  I make him drink some water and then I hold his hand until he falls back to sleep. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, trying not to relive the horror of seeing him in that godforsaken coffin.

  But every time I blink, I see it again.

  He could have died.

  Because of me.

  Hell, he very nearly did.

  I pace around the room with nothing to do. I’m unwilling to leave, so I uselessly fluff pillows, draw the blinds down, and tidy up areas that don’t need to be tidied.

  I feel useless. Irrelevant. And extremely guilty.

  Sometime later, the door opens with a soft creak. I glance over as Fiona walks in carrying a large tray. I clear space for her on the round table sitting in front of the windows.

  There’s an assortment of breads and pastries, some juice, more water. Everything smells amazing. But I have no appetite.

  “Saoirse, dear,” she says gently. “You need to eat.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  She sighs. She was expecting that response. “Is there anything you would like to eat?”

  I shake my head. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

  She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I know it’s hard,” she says. “But stay strong. He’s still here.”

  I give her a tight smile and she leaves the room as quietly as she came in. I sit down in front of the laden tray and stare with disinterest at all the food she’s packed onto it.

  My thoughts start twisting around with ever-increasing fervor. But they go nowhere productive. Nowhere helpful.

  Just around and around in endless, nightmarish circles.

  * * *

  Pa sleeps for about an hour. When he wakes up, I’m right by his side. “Have you been here the entire time?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I reply, sitting up and putting my hands on his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

  He gazes at the ceiling for a moment. “Strange. Weak. Ashamed.”

  I don’t expect that. I raise my eyebrows.

  “Ashamed?”

  “It was Tristan,” Pa explains. “He… I remember bits and pieces.”

  “He’s the one who put you in the coffin?” I gasp, even though I’m not really surprised.

  “I was in a fookin’ coffin?”

  I bite my lip, not sure how or if to answer.

  He studies my face and then looks down at the way I’m clutching his hand. “Where are we, sweet?”

  “The O’Sullivan Manor.”

  “This is where you ran off to?” he asks, but there’s no accusation in his tone.

  “No, Pa. I… I planned on leaving the country,” I admit, biting the bullet and owning the decision I made back when I had hope. “I was at the airport when Tristan caught me. He dragged me to the station and put me in a holding cell.”

  “Under what grounds?” Pa surprises me by asking.

  “On the grounds that I pissed him off,” I laugh scornfully. “You know what he’s like.”

  Pa’s eyes cloud over and he returns pressure on my hand. “I do know what he’s like. I knew… even back then.” He looks down as though he can’t bear to look me in the eye. “And I let you marry him. I encouraged it.”

  I stare silently at my father. Mostly because I never expected to hear him admit to that out loud.

  “I knew he was a monster,” Pa continues. “But somehow, I thought it was a good thing. I thought he could keep you safe, provide for you.”

  “And help you out when you needed it?” I accuse before I can stop myself.

  His face twists again.

  I feel instantly horrible. “I’m sorry, Pa.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s true. I was thinking of myself when I should have been thinking of you.”

  “It’s okay. Forget about it. We can talk about something else.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says firmly. “Tristan had me dragged out from the home a few days ago.”

  “He did what?” I gape at him.

  Pa nods. “He moved me back to your house. He had me tied up. Tortured.”

  He hiccups on the last word and I lean in a little closer. “Oh, Pa, for fuck’s sake… I’m so sorry…”

  He shakes his head and gives me a sad smile. “I make all the mistakes and yet you’re always the one who ends up apologizing. I should be the one apologizing, Saoirse. I should be on my knees begging for your forgiveness.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “I could barely stand a few days with him,” Pa interrupts. “How you managed thirteen years, I’ll never know. I’m ashamed of what I expected you to put up with. To suffer through.”

  I look down as bitterness and pain war with one another.

  I love my father. But I recognize the part of myself that’s also angry with him.

  It’s not like the bruises and scars on my arms went unnoticed. He saw it all.

  He just pretended not to.

  It was easier for him to believe that I fell down the stairs, that I cut myself shaving, that the kitchen knife just happened to slip.

  Much less convenient to face the fact that my husband was a beast.

  “I know you did it all for me.”

  “I did do it for you,” I reply with a nod. “But in the end, I couldn’t anymore, Pa. That’s why I was planning on leaving. I had to fight for myself.”

  My father looks down. “I was angry at first when I heard. And then I realized what you were running from,” he says. “You were running from me as much as you were running from him.”

  It’s shockingly honest. More perceptive than anything else I’ve ever heard him say.

  And I don’t deny it.

  My natural instinct is to step in and try and absolve him of blame. But this time, I stop myself.

  It’s time to face harsh truths, even if they hurt. I’ve been hiding behind denial too long.

  He has, too.

  “I love you, Pa,” I tell him fervently. “I’ve always loved you. But I’ve been alone all these years. Even before Tristan entered my life, I was alone. You left me when Mama did.”

  Pa closes his eyes and a tear slips free. “Your mother… She was the best part of me.”

  “And her death broke your heart,” I say. “I know, Pa. But you didn’t fight for the part of her she left behind. You never
fought for me.”

  He looks at me through tear-filled eyes and nods. He accepts the blame I’m laying at his feet, instead of batting it away like he used to.

  It makes me feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted off my chest.

  I’ve never had this before. The grace of simple fucking acknowledgement.

  It means everything.

  “I have so much to atone for, Saoirse,” he whispers. “For all the pain and suffering you went through. That’s on me.”

  I sigh. “It’s not, Pa. Even if you had objected, Tristan wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. He’s wanted me for a long time. Ever since I was a teenager.”

  A horrified look flits across his face, and he turns a nasty shade of pink.

  “Did… did he touch you… when you were a teenager? Before you married him?”

  I don’t understand why people assume rape is somehow easier to bear when you’re older, or within the confines of marriage. Rape is rape, no matter what form it takes.

  “No, Pa. He never did that.”

  He releases a breath. I can see that he’s relieved. I decide to let him have that little kernel of peace.

  He knows I’ve suffered. He doesn’t need to know the precise details of what that suffering entailed.

  All those nights I was held down and gagged while Tristan used my body like it was his to use, destroy, degrade.

  All those nights I cried myself to sleep because I knew I would have to wake up and pleasure a man I hated.

  All those nights I dreamed about another man—a laughing guardian angel with blond curls and clear blue eyes.

  There’s a knock on the door. Pa stiffens.

  I give him a reassuring pat and stand up. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You rest. I’ll go see who it is.”

  I walk out into the broad hallway to find Cillian standing there, waiting for me. His expression is kind of closed-off. Guarded.

  “He’s awake?” Cillian asks.

  “Yes. But he needs to rest. He’s confused. Hurting.”

  Cillian frowns. “I’ve given him plenty of time,” he says. “For your sake alone. It’s time I spoke to him.”

  He tries to walk past me, but I step to the side and block him. “Cillian, I’m serious. He’s been through a lot. You need to give him more time.”

  “I gave him enough,” he says harshly. “I have a responsibility to my clan as well. And I’ve already waited too long to question him.”

  “You make him sound like a suspect.”

  “He’s the only lead we have at the moment,” Cillian says simply.

  “He’s still disoriented and confused…”

  “I heard you in there talking to him,” he points out gruffly. “If he’s able to have a coherent conversation with you, then he can speak to me.”

  “Would you show a little bit of sensitivity for once in your fucking life?” I demand, my anger igniting fast.

  I’m aware that I’m emotional at the moment, but I don’t have the presence of mind to reign it in.

  “Me?” he roars back, his tone rising to meet mine. “What about you? Your father’s sitting in that room safe and sound. My parents are being held by the enemy and I fucking need to get them back! Some things are not all about you, Saoirse.”

  I rear back as though he’s slapped me. Before I can figure out what to say, someone interrupts.

  “Ahem.”

  I whirl around to see a young man leaning on crutches, looking between Cillian and me.

  I’ve never seen him before but I recognize him instantly. “You must be Kian.”

  “And you must be Saoirse,” he says.

  He’s handsome. Every bit as handsome as Cillian and just as tall. But his features are a little heavier, a little broodier. His smile doesn’t come as easy.

  There’s more darkness in him. He wears his pain differently.

  “I was just heading to the garden,” he says. “Why don’t you join me? You look like you need to stretch your legs.”

  He may be right about that, but I don’t appreciate his transparent attempt to get me out of the way so that Cillian can interrogate my father.

  He seems to realize as much. “You know my brother, Saoirse,” he says. “You can trust him to do this delicately.”

  I glance back at Cillian, who gives me a small nod. “This can’t be delayed any longer,” he says grimly.

  With a sigh, I nod, conceding defeat.

  Cillian looks like he’s about to say something else to me. Then, at the last minute, he changes his mind and heads into Pa’s room.

  The door shuts on me. I glance towards Kian, who’s looking at me with curiosity.

  “Yeah,” I say before he can fire the barb, “I’m the girl who cost him his family and his country. We can get that out of the way ahead of time.”

  Kian smiles. And when he does, the smile transforms him. It’s like seeing a younger version of Cillian. One with lighter eyes, darker hair.

  “I get it now,” he whispers reverently.

  “Get what?”

  “Why he did what he did all those years ago.”

  I turn from him quickly so that he doesn’t see what those simple words do to me.

  44

  Cillian

  Padraig’s Room

  Padraig Connelly aged a lot in the last thirteen years. Wrinkles and frown lines ravage his features.

  But I think it’s regret that has taken the greatest toll on him.

  He attempts to sit up a little straighter when he sees me walk in. “Cillian O’Sullivan,” he says by way of greeting.

  I drag a chair over to his bedside and straddle it. “Bet you didn’t think you’d see me again.”

  “No,” he admits. “I didn’t. And I certainly didn’t expect to feel relieved when I did.”

  “Wow,” I remark without betraying my feelings, “I’m almost touched.”

  His eyes grow careful as he senses the underlying frigidity in my tone. “I should thank you,” he says. “For saving my girl.”

  “She wouldn’t have needed saving if you’d taken care of her.”

  He tenses immediately.

  I probably should go easy on him. But I can’t quell the rage I feel thinking about all those years that Saoirse had to suffer through while he stood silently by and watched.

  “I… I know what I did,” he says at last. “I know I failed her.”

  “Tell me—did you really not know the kind of man Tristan was?” I probe. “Or did you just not give a fuck?”

  His eyes go wide.

  But it’s not defensiveness I’m seeing. It’s regret. Shame. Sadness.

  He draws in a long, rattling breath. “Deep down, I suppose I did know,” he says, hanging his head. “I just… justified things.”

  “How?”

  Padraig lifts his eyes to mine. They’re glassy with emotion, and I can tell it’s genuine. He’s not putting on a show for my benefit.

  He means this.

  “I was worried about her future. I thought Tristan was strong enough, connected enough to keep her safe.”

  “I could have kept her safe,” I snap before I can rein in my temper.

  Padraig eyes me wearily. “I heard about the two of you secondhand,” he mumbles. “How was I to know what had happened?”

  “You could have asked your daughter, no?”

  “I tried once,” he admits. “She refused to say a word about you. She snapped her mouth shut and stayed silent for days. I decided it was better not to mention you at all.”

  “And what about afterwards?” I ask. “When bruises started popping up on her arms and neck? What then?”

  Padraig flinches. “She gave me explanations. I believed them.”

  “Because it was convenient.”

  “Yes.”

  The way he owns up to everything surprises me. I’d pegged him for a coward from the very beginning. And cowards blame the rest of the world for their mistakes while shirking their own responsibility.

&n
bsp; This is not that. Not by a long shot.

  “I… I failed her,” Padraig says again. “And I will never forgive myself for that.”

  I take a deep breath and lean back in my seat.

  And, God help me, I take a small bit of mercy on the poor bastard.

  “You can make amends,” I tell him. “You can be there for her now.”

  “Perhaps. Doesn’t erase the past though.”

  “No,” I admit. “No, it doesn’t.” Then I lean forward again, elbows propped on my knees. “What forced you to face the truth?”

  “What truth?”

  “The truth about Tristan.”

  Padraig swallows. “Three days ago, Saoirse was supposed to show up for her shift at the home. She’s never missed a day. When she didn’t show up, I called him. He didn’t say much but I could tell something had happened. That night he showed up and told me I was being discharged from the nursing home I was living in. He was taking me back home. The house where he and Saoirse lived.”

  “And did he take you there?”

  “Yes. But… he wasn’t moving me back in like I’d wanted,” Padraig says, his words stalling slightly under the weight of the memory. “He said… He was going to punish me, he said.”

  “For?”

  “For raising an ungrateful daughter,” Padraig explains with difficulty. “He told me that I’d be useful to him when the time came. And I’d be a punching bag to him in the meantime.”

  He stops talking for a moment and reaches for a tissue.

  “I… I can’t remember too much,” he admits. “I was unconscious for a lot of the time when Tristan was around. He’d ask me questions, and if I didn’t give him the answers he wanted, he’d beat me.”

  The bruises on his face prove that much.

  “What questions did he ask you?”

  Padraig concentrates inwardly, trying to dredge out specific memories. “He asked me… if Saoirse talks about you.”

  “Me?” I repeat, frowning.

  “Yes,” Padraig confirms with a nod. “He seemed to think that she still had feelings for you.”

  That’s news to me. Since we’d reconnected, Saoirse has made it abundantly clear that her feelings for me are in the past.

  But apparently, Tristan feels differently. Which begs the question…