Broken Hearts (Hearts 2)

Strangely, tears bit my eyes and I had to blink them back. Panic, maybe. Fear, for sure. And grief of the life I’d been thinking about. Beth Soeterick and her sister and school and a future—all gone. And the life I was about to go into felt like something I would not survive.

Married. To Ronan. A twisted version of my deepest desire.

“We need you to marry us, Father Patrick.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, mustering up some enthusiasm, though with one glance back at Ronan and his bleak face, it was gone. “Are you sure?”

“We are,” I said, pulling his attention back to me. “And we have a time issue.”

“Okay,” he said. “Well, you need to register three weeks before—”

“We need to do this now,” Ronan interrupted.

“Well, in Ireland, to be legal, you need the marriage notice form—”

“The form we can worry about later,” Eden said.

“But—”

“You’re a priest,” Ronan said. “We’re of age.”

“I fear you’re doing something that you’ll regret. You’ll be asking for forgiveness for this act, son—”

“I’m not your fucking son!” he shouted and then did what I was terrified he was going to do all along. He pulled a gun on the priest. “And I will not be talking about forgiveness with the likes of you.”

I stepped between them and smiled with all my might. “I’m sorry, Father Patrick, to pull you into this. But we need to get married. Now.”

After a long moment, Father Patrick nodded. Eden clapped. “Fabulous. I’ll take pictures!”

“Follow me,” Father Patrick said, leading us into the sanctuary. We then climbed the three red stairs to stand in front of the whalebone altar. Our panic and guns defiled the peace and quiet of the space. We’d brought something very unholy to a holy place.

“Use this,” Ronan said and pulled from his bag the black shirt I’d worn when I’d woken up in the cottage that first morning. It was still dirty. Still stained with my blood. He tore a giant piece off it and handed it to the priest. “For the handfasting.”

“That’s an ancient pagan ceremony,” Father Patrick said, but held the blood-stained cloth. “It hasn’t been performed in the church for hundreds of years.”

“Do you know it or not?” Ronan asked.

“Enough of it, I suppose.”

“That’s what I want,” Ronan said.

“Is that what you want?” Father Patrick asked me.

“I want to be married to Ronan,” I said, unclear on what handfasting was, but Ronan seemed deeply set on having it and I figured someone should get something they wanted today.

“I’ll do it,” Father Patrick said, and Eden breathed a sigh of relief. “On one condition.”

“You’re in a poor place to be demanding conditions,” Ronan said.

“What is the condition?” I asked, scared he might insist Ronan forgive him. That Ronan would never do.

“Confession,” Father Patrick said.

“Oh brother,” Eden muttered.

“Of course,” I said quickly. “I suppose I’ve lied and had—”

“Not yours, lass,” Father Patrick pointed at Ronan. “His.”

Ronan took two steps, crowding the priest against a pulpit. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said, each word bitten and sharp. “The last time I went to confession was the night Tommy hung himself. I’ve killed thirty-two men in my life.”

I staggered back, catching myself against a baptism bowl. I mean, I knew he was a killer, but hearing it out loud made it real.

“The first when I was sixteen. Two of them just an hour ago. I imagine I’ll have a few more to kill before the day is over. One of them was Poppy’s fucking husband too. And I’d do it all again. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. Though it’s been years since I’ve had to. I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain every fucking day. I’ve had wicked thoughts. Wicked thoughts about fucking her.” He pointed at me. “And just an hour ago, I had a wicked thought of watching the two of them.” He pointed to Eden and me. “Fuck each other. And the last few days, I’ve had real wicked thoughts about killing you. And I’m not sorry for any of it.”

Over Ronan’s shoulder, Father Patrick met my eyes. He was shaking, he was so scared. “Are you sure, lass?” he asked me. “I see no redemption in this man. No sweetness.”

I didn’t either. But choice was a luxury I didn’t have.

“I’m sure.”

“May God have mercy on your souls,” Father Patrick said. To all of us.

“Just marry us,” Ronan snarled.

Father Patrick had a form in the vestry that we signed. Eden signed as a witness.

“It’s not legal,” he said again. “Without the stamp from the office—”

“I’ll worry about the stamp,” Eden said, like a doomsday wedding planner. Hysterical, I laughed and clapped a hand over my mouth.

We stood under the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the chain link fence that protected them from the boys who were long gone.

Except Ronan.

If he showed any reaction to getting married to me in the place where he’d once been terrorized and where he’d lost a friend, he didn’t show it.