Gerald leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes digging into my scowl, trying to read it. “I’ve never shunned you, ceann beag. You’re my son. Mine, and no one else’s. I call you little one because you were always precious to me. From the moment you were born, you were so lovely, people on the street mistook you for a girl. God touched you, blessed you with something special, and I couldn’t wait to see what you’d do with it. My love for you was dipped in a good amount of apprehension, because you didn’t come from me. You were not biologically programmed to love me back like Cillian and Aisling, and that unsettled me. There was something wild and foreign and mysterious about you, an undiscovered continent full of secrets and things I did not know or possess. You were smart as a demon and completely unstoppable, a storm. When you chose to misuse the gifts you were given, it broke my heart, but I always knew you had it—the ruthless gene. You simply had to be pushed in the right direction.”
I knew it was my turn to say something, but I was still waiting for Kill to speak. Whether Gerald Fitzpatrick loved me like a son or not, it was obvious to the entire city of Boston that his heir, the future leader of the Fitzpatrick clan, was going to be none other than Cillian. He was going to take over this kingdom, and my place in it depended on him.
The truth of it rattled me. I was a prince between two kings, always would be.
But for the first time, I stopped resenting the fact that he was born to rule, and I, to govern beside him.
I turned my face toward Kill. “Anything to add?”
He crossed his legs, assessing me through a thinly veiled expression of boredom. “We’re going to have disagreements, arguments, and fights. I’m going to do things you’re going to hate, and you are going to have to bite your tongue and march on, like the good soldier you are. I, in return, promise to accommodate your poor language choices and ability to find a sexual innuendo in anything on the planet, and I promise not to touch your girlfriend.”
“Well.” Sailor jumped into his speech, taking the bait, like Kill knew she would.
He sat back and grinned at her, awaiting the verbal whip.
“You don’t really have much choice in the matter. No offense, but I’d rather take a corpse to bed than you.”
“None taken, and it would probably offer you more affection,” Cillian confirmed, returning his eyes to me.
“Possibly because you will be a corpse if you talk about my sister like that again,” Sam added with a poisonous little smile.
Everyone but Cillian laughed.
“Nevertheless,” Kill continued, “I want you to be my right hand. I know you are good for it. You’ve proven yourself trustworthy, honest, and hardworking. You’ll be my moral compass. God knows I need one. I want you by my side, brother.”
I stood, tugging Sailor by the hand, signaling to her that the conversation was over. To me, it was.
“I’ll need a detailed contract ensuring my inheritance is intact, and furthermore, that you waive the right to dangle it in my face every time we have a disagreement.” I looked between my brother and father. “Am I understood?”
My father shot to his feet, scowling.
“We just told you we love you, and you want your inheritance rights to be documented?”
“I am a Fitzpatrick.” I shot him a cold smile.
I turned to make my way to the dining table. Sailor hugged Aisling and the Penrose sisters hurriedly before rushing to my side. We entered the dining hall. Everybody followed. I took a seat at the side of the table.
Da took the seat beside me, making his position clear.
Cillian took the head of the table, signaling the shift of generations.
Troy sat on the other side of the table’s head, Sam by his side.
Da put his hand on mine. From across the table, Mom smiled, silent tears running down her powdered cheeks.
Kill raised his wine glass in salute at the head of the table. Everyone joined the toast this time—all drinking actual wine.
“To our kingdom, and to showing our enemies why it will remain ours. To being a Fitzpatrick.” He paused, looking between the two Penrose sisters speculatively, an inch of a smile curving over his face. “And to Boston.”
Four years later
Feathery kisses made their way down my throat. The loose fabric of Hunter’s shirt, which I’d used as pajamas, was pulled over my head. I recognized those kisses well: the let’s-get-freaky morning kisses that signaled the start of a new day.
I turned to my side, wiggling my butt into Hunter’s erection, my eyes still closed.
“Too tired,” I murmured.
“Too horny,” he replied gruffly, springing his dick out of his briefs and nestling it between my butt cheeks.