Hawk climbs out of the SUV and I open my door. He doesn’t retrieve the duffel but comes directly to my side, eyes locked on the castle.
“It’s cold here,” I say, hugging my arms to myself. It’s nowhere near as warm as Vegas.
“It’s always cold here,” he almost snaps, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck.
I stop, make him turn to me.
“Why did you bring me?”
He doesn’t answer right away but smiles a rueful smile and his eyes, even though they’re on me, are distant.
He leans down, squeezes his hand around my neck and brings his mouth to my ear.
“Because I’m going to need to fuck the desire to murder my half-brother out of me.”
With that, he pulls back.
I know I should be offended but this is the first insight I’ve had into his life. And it’s a big one.
He has a half-brother.
And he hates him.
I remember the photograph I’d found tucked inside his book. Remember the man holding the baby. Is that his brother?
I open my mouth to ask him more, but the sudden sound of dogs barking breaks into the quiet day, interrupting us. I startle and I don’t know if Hawk sees that, but he takes my wrist, pulls me behind him.
We both turn to what a quick count tells me are eight golden retrievers running our way, six puppies and two adults.
“I don’t believe it,” I hear Hawk say and I see the smile on his face. It’s one that makes his eyes shine.
He releases me and crouches down to greet the dogs, petting them and even laughing when the pups lick his face.
When they come to me, I pet them too, but am more curious about Hawk’s reaction to them. So different to the cool, collected man I’ve come to know. The one who doesn’t let anything personal show. Ever. A man who is passionate, but so guarded.
I realize I don’t know anything about him that doesn’t have to do with me.
He finally straightens, giving one of the mature dogs a final pat on the head. “There was a pup I left behind,” he says. “I’m going to guess these are the next generation.”
“They’re sweet,” I say, as one of the puppies, tail wagging frantically, licks my face. “And enthusiastic.”
I stand, and when he turns to the door, the smile and ease from a moment ago vanishes, replaced by something heavier.
We walk toward the imposing front doors, two heavy wooden doors with black ornate iron hinges and studs, almost as if they came from a century ago. Maybe they did.
He doesn’t bother to knock, which surprises me, but pushes the door open and immediately I smell the scent of wood burning and food cooking.
We step into the entry and stand on a carpet so worn, it’s almost threadbare. I can see the stones beneath in some places. The walls, too, are draped with carpets or maybe they’re made especially for the walls. I’m not sure, but I don’t have time to think or ask about it because I hear footsteps. And soon, a man appears.
A man as tall as Hawk.
As big.
As beautiful.
The one from that photograph, just a little older from when that was taken.
And each man, upon seeing the other, stops, eyes hardening.
Tension thins the air around us.
No, not tension.
This is something else.
Something more.
Hate.
The man must be a few years younger than Hawk but the similarities in features, in stance, in the ferocity of their gazes, leaves no question that these two are related.
“Well, well,” the man says in his heavy Scottish accent. “The prodigal son returns.”
Hawk releases me and steps toward him. “Prodigal or not, I’m laird of this house.”
“Not yet, you’re not, brother.”
I grip Hawk’s arm when he takes another menacing step forward. But when we hear another set of footsteps, he stops.
An older man appears. He must be in his seventies and he’s dressed formally in a dark suit. He stops upon seeing Hawk, surprise in his eyes. A moment later, he smiles warmly.
Hawk takes him in, and nods in greeting.
I wonder if he can speak. If he’s able to because his eyes betray his emotions. I wonder if the others can see it. See the loss.
“Welcome home, Hawk,” he says, extending his hand to shake Hawk’s before moving in to hug him. It takes Hawk a moment to hug him back. “Your father would have wanted you here.”
“Don’t humor me, old man,” Hawk says, stepping backward. “My father turned his back on me.” His accent, it’s stronger here, that deep burr that belongs only to the Scots making me sit up and take notice.
But maybe it’s the anger in his words that makes him sound so harsh.
The brother snorts and starts to say something, but the old man raises his hand to quiet him.
“Now’s not the time, Declan. Your brother’s had a long journey.”