Every day for the rest of our lives sounds pretty damned perfect.
Meanwhile, in New York City...
I stare at the text message with the same sense of cold disconnect that has dogged my steps for eight months, since I learned that the man who raised me is not my father. Since I learned that my mother, may she rest in peace, lied to me, lied to him, lied to my brothers. All my life is a lie—every single shred of it.
I am not Holden Hart, I am Hades, the darkness, the devil.
She said yes!
Jagger’s happiness would have meant the world to me once upon a time, but not now. Nothing means anything.
I throw the Scotch back, the burn against the back of my throat as familiar to me as breathing.
Jagger’s getting married. The man I’ve thought of as a brother all my life has fallen head over fucking heels in love, whatever that means, and is going to start a family of his own.
And I won’t be a part of it—I don’t belong, not really. I’m a Hart in name only and the sooner they start to accept that, the better.
Across the room, a woman smiles at me, slow and languid, and I contemplate picking her up. I could do with a good fuck. Not sure my head would tolerate the movement, though. I think I’m on about seven days straight of being hammered.
I look away, back to the phone as it buzzes once more.
You’re my best man, by the way.
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. I want to tell him to fuck off, he’s dreaming, because I’m not really his brother, not really a Hart, and I’m no kind of best man.
I am not Holden Hart any more. I am the darkness, I am the devil, I am Hades and always will be...
* * *