Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted 2)

Vaguely, he was aware of Jasper watching him.

“Hi, pretty girl,” One-Mile managed to scratch out.

Her gaze fell on them and her eyes flared wide. “You’re here already?”

Her father got to his feet. Together, they approached her. One-Mile hung back.

“We’re just talking, sweetheart.” The preacher kissed her cheek and squeezed her as if he feared losing her. “Why don’t you join us?”

She looked nervous, her flustered gaze darting back and forth between them as if she’d half expected an argument or violence. “Sure.” She took in the empty table between them. “Before I sit down, coffee? Tea?” She sent him an apologetic glance. “We don’t have anything harder.”

He waved her off. “I’m fine.”

“Nothing for me,” her father said.

“O-okay.” She set her purse and keys down, then sank to the sofa beside her father. “What did I miss?”

“Pierce was apologizing that we hadn’t met previously.”

“And?” Brea glanced tensely between them, as if she was braced for conflict.

“Like your dad said, we’re talking.”

“He asked me for your hand.”

A smile crept across her face as she reached out, slipping her palm in his own. “And?”

“We’re talking about that, too. But before he answers, I need to say something.” One-Mile took a deep breath. “You need to know everything before you decide if you truly want to marry me.”

She stilled. “You’re going to tell me about your father?”

He nodded, his gut in knots. “I won’t lie. I’ve avoided this because I didn’t want you to look at me like a monster.”

“Pierce, I already know—”

“You don’t.” He turned to Jasper. “I want you to hear this, sir, because I fully admit I’m far from perfect. But if you give your consent, I want you to know exactly the son-in-law you’ll be getting. I want your blessing to be real.” He grimaced. “And I only want to say this once.”

The preacher nodded, his expression neutral, but his demeanor said it would probably be a cold day in hell.

Yeah, he’d figured. The man thought he was a lunatic with bloodlust coursing in his veins. That there was a nonstop circus of violence in his head. That he fed his soul by stealing the life from others. Baring his past wasn’t going to help.

But he had to do this for Brea.

“Your daughter knows I was fifteen when I killed my father. She doesn’t know the circumstances.”

Brea, bless her big heart, gripped his hand tighter. “I want to hear it all. I’ll be here for you, no matter what you say.”

One-Mile wasn’t so sure about that. She wasn’t equipped to understand his father’s brand of filthy depravity. Nor was the preacher. But she deserved to know who and what she was getting in a husband. To keep her, he would gladly rip open every old wound and gouge out his fucking soul.

And he prayed this wasn’t the last time she looked at him with love in her eyes.

He squeezed her dainty hand one last time, then let go. They would either succeed or fail based on the next five minutes. “My mom died when I was a baby.”

Brea nodded. “We’ve talked about having that in common.”

The information had been more for Jasper’s edification than hers. But he went on. “Growing up, it was just me and my dad, except the summers I spent in Wyoming with my grandpa. If not for him, I probably would have ended up a sociopath. Because from the time I was about four, I knew something was wrong. Not just because I didn’t have a mom like the other kids. But because I spent a lot of my time alone.”

Brea frowned. “You mean without him or…”

“Alone. He eked out a living by fixing cars in the freestanding garage he built in our yard. Hell of a mechanic. I got maybe a tenth of his aptitude there. He could fix anything. He modified guns on the side, too.”

“Is that where you learned to shoot?”

“The basics.”

One-Mile blew out another breath. He was nervous as fuck. Already he could tell this story would be a jumbled-ass mess. He’d never told it. Hell, he avoided thinking about it.

“The rest”—he shrugged—“I picked up here and there. It’s not important. But my dad was always violent.”

Brea held her breath. “Abusive?”

He shook his head. “Not like that. Not when I was a little kid. He had a crappy temper. I knew when to run and hide. We had a lot of walls with holes in them.”

Brea flinched. Her father shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Shit. He was just getting warmed up. “But he didn’t hit me. Mostly Dad was antisocial. He worked alone. He didn’t have friends. We didn’t know anyone in town. People who tried to be neighborly or lend a helping hand, he rebuffed.”

Jasper raised a brow. “Cutter said you do the same at work.”

He pulled at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Old habit. I should probably break it. Anyway, he’d work all day…and often go out all night. It wasn’t uncommon for me to wake up at three a.m. and be alone.”