A Vow Of Hate

She had a habit of running away and every time, I’d let her.

Until…

I slammed the whiskey glass on the countertop. The fury still festered, even after three long years. It dug holes inside me until I was less human and more monster. And it was all because of her.

I closed my eyes. The memories didn’t make me sad anymore nor did they hurt because I was fucking enraged.

Julianna.

My wife.

She stole the one good thing I had in my life.

Her face, hidden by the black and lace veil, flashed behind my closed eyelids. Even though I had put more distance than possible between her and me, she was still here. In my head. Mocking me with every breath she took, taunting me every minute of the day.

How was it possible that I thought of the woman who destroyed my life with a simple flick of her wrist more than I thought of my Gracelynn?

The heartbreak had long been forgotten. I was no longer heartbroken; I was just so goddamn angry. At Julianna. At my father… at everyone and everything. It was easier to be angry than to feel hurt.

Heartbreak made me weak.

Rage gave me purpose.

It had been six months and two weeks since our wedding, since I left her on the Island. I thought she’d come back a few weeks into our marriage, demanding her wifely rights. I thought she’d expect us to stay together – to share a fucking bed and a life.

But Julianna shocked me by not only continuing to stay on the Island, but she made it her home. When Bishop had asked her to return back to the mainland, she simply refused.

When my father had tried to convince her to come back to Spencer Manor, she said that she had already settled on Isle Rosa-Maria and that she liked it there.

The gossip had spread far and wide – but both my father and Bishop had tried to shut it down. They succeeded when my father’s illness was made public.

The focus had switched from my failed marriage with Julianna to my father’s little time left on this earth.

A tumor in the brain, the doctor had explained. It was not operatable. And worst, it was invasive and growing rapidly. One doctor said my father had less than a year to live. Another one gave him an estimate of eighteen months. They said he could try radiation therapy or chemotherapy, but I remembered the look on their faces – the pity and the defeat.

They said it all depended on my father’s luck and God’s will.

But fuck that. What was the reason for science and evolution when we still had to depend on “luck” and “God”?

My father was dying and I had approximately ten months to make his wishes come true and fulfill our contract with Bishop Romano.

An heir for the Romanos and Spencers.

A child to connect the two families by blood.

My fist clenched around my glass. “Fuck,” I hissed under my breath, reaching for the bottle of whiskey.

“Well, you’re in a good mood today.” My father joined me, coming to stand by my side. He grabbed the bottle before I could and poured the whiskey into my glass.

“Are you packed yet?” he asked, almost lazily, but I didn’t miss the threat in his tone.

“You’re literally kicking me out of my own home,” I snapped, before bringing the glass to my lips, taking a sip.

“Your home is with your wife, Killian. If she’s not coming here, you will go to her.” He was talking as if I was a five-year old and still needed my father’s guidance in life.

Yeah, no. I knew exactly what I had to do and it has nothing to do with Julianna Romano.

“You have a contract to fulfill,” my father reminded me. “And I don’t have long to live. I want to see my grandchild before it’s my time to go.”

Thanks, dad. I definitely needed that reminder.

My mother was traveling Europe with her lover and my father was dying. I married my dead girlfriend’s sister who also happened to be her killer and I detested my wife.

Breathe in the rage, breathe out any other emotions.

I dropped the glass on the marble countertop and walked away.

“Julianna is not the villain you’re making her out to be, Killian,” my father called out. “It was an accident.”

I paused. Fire licked through my veins and I felt the spark of rage, starting from the bottom of my spine, and my fists clenched at my sides. “She had a choice,” I gritted out. “She shouldn’t have been driving that night. Especially not when she was intoxicated. Accident or not, she killed Gracelynn.”

I heard him walking closer and my father stood in front of me. His jaw squared and his pale face stern. We were the same height and we used to be the same build. But my father had lost weight over the last three months. I could see the fatigue in his eyes as death dug itself inside his bones.