Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

By the time Liam answers the phone, I’m ready to smash something.

“Brother,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “Tell me this is an emergency. Tell me you’re not calling me at three o’clock in the morning for a family chat.”

I growl, “It’s two here. And aye, it’s a fucking emergency.” I spin on my heel and turn back to pace the other direction, ignoring Declan inside the SUV. He’s watching me, shaking his head like I’m a lost cause.

Hearing my tone, Liam’s sharpens. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. I’m the opposite of all right, whatever that is.”

“What’s going on?”

I glance up at Juliet’s apartment window. It’s dark. The whole street is dark, except for the streetlights and the nuclear glow of my agitation. I demand, “How did you make Tru fall in love with you?”

After a short silence, Liam says warily, “Come again?”

“You heard what I said. Answer the question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand. It’s a simple question.”

“Not coming from you, it isn’t.”

I stop short, drop my head back, and stare up into the starry night sky. Closing my eyes, I exhale heavily. I encapsulate the direness of the situation into three words.

“There’s a woman.”

Silence. Then, flatly: “You’re joking.”

“No.”

More silence. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog howls at the moon. I know exactly how the poor creature feels.

Liam says, “Thank you for waiting while I picked my jaw up off the floor. How bad is it?”

My laugh is low and disbelieving. “Bad. Fucking…bad.”

After another heavy pause, Liam says, “Does she know?”

“Aye.”

“Does she feel the same way?”

I picture Juliet’s face. The way she looks at me with those big brown eyes filled with anger, disgust, curiosity, and desire. I know it’s only hope on my part that I think the desire has a good chance of winning out.

“She’s not as clear about her feelings as I am about mine.”

Liam’s tone turns dismissive. “Then she’s daft.”

“She’s not daft. She’s perfect. She can hardly stand the sight of me, and she doesn’t trust me for shit, and she mocks me every bloody chance she gets…” My sigh is heavy and hopeless. “And she’s perfect.”

“Good god,” says Liam, alarmed. “Who the hell am I talking to? You sound like an actual human being!”

“I know. It’s awful. Help.”

After a stunned silence, Liam says, “Did the word ‘help’ just come out of your mouth? Because if it did, I’ll know this phone call is a dream brought on by the red wine I had with dinner. To the real Killian Black, ‘help’ is almost as foul a four-letter word as ‘love’ is.”

A disgruntled growl rumbles through my chest.

Liam laughs in delight, the fucker. “I think you should get off the phone with me and call an ambulance, brother. You don’t seem to be doing so well. A massive cardiac arrest could be in your immediate future.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” I snap. “Now fucking tell me how you got Tru to fucking fall in love with you.”

“All right, calm down. If you must know, I kidnapped her.”

It’s my turn to be stunned into silence.

Sounding defensive, he says, “It’s not ideal, I know.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“And it worked?”

“She’s sleeping beside me. Wearing my ring. Carrying my child. I’d say it worked.”

His voice has grown warm and soft, and I know that he’s looking at the sleeping form of his wife snuggled against him in bed. I feel a disturbing pang of what can only be described as envy.

No. It has to be hunger. I’ve never been envious of anyone in my entire life.

Then I realize there was one man I was envious of once. A man who had something that looked beautiful from the outside, the same way that what my brother has with Tru looks beautiful from the outside.

I’ll never have that. That beautiful thing will never be mine. I made a life for myself built on revenge and dead bodies, and beautiful things such as that are not meant for men such as me.

The anguish I feel is so crushing I have to force myself to breathe through it so I don’t smash the phone to pieces in my hand.

“Killian?”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t hate me for saying this, but whatever is meant to be will be. Fate will take care of it.”

I scoff. “Belief in fate is for children and fools. I’m neither.”

“You don’t have to believe in something for it to be true. Just because you have an opinion doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“Of course it does. I’m always right.”

I hear the smile in Liam’s voice when he speaks. “There he is. I was beginning to think you’d been possessed.” He stifles a chuckle. “By the ghost of Romeo Montague.”

“Speaking of which, you’ll enjoy this: her name is Juliet.”

He laughs. “Now that’s funny.”

“It’s not a joke. Guess what else?”

“She thinks the Republic of Ireland is in the UK.”

“Worse. She’s Antonio Moretti’s daughter.”

My brother doesn’t gasp. It’s simply not a thing he does. But from across the phone line comes the distinctive sound of a hard breath being dragged in from shock.

Then he starts coughing. Hacking, like a big piece of meat is lodged in his throat.

“Aye,” I say drily. “Now you know how I feel.”

“Antonio—Moretti’s—daughter?”

The words are garbled, choked out between strangled coughs. In the background, Tru’s voice is a worried murmur.

Shit. I’ve woken her up. “I’m sorry for calling so late. I’ll let you get back to your wife.”

“No! Hold on!” An elephantine trumpeting nearly deafens me. He’s clearing his throat. Then he comes back on the line and thunders, “What the hell do you mean she’s Antonio Moretti’s daughter?”

“I mean exactly that. Her name is Juliet Moretti. Daddy Dearest is our good friend, Antonio. Welcome to my life.”

He wheezes. I imagine him, bug-eyed, sitting up in bed with the phone clenched so hard in his hand his knuckles are white, his pretty young wife hovering over him in hand-wringing worry as he tries not to topple over from the stroke he’s having.

The image is strangely satisfying.

“No more pithy platitudes about fate for me, brother? No sage advice about how not to fall hard for our mortal enemy’s only child?”

He barks, “Does she know who you are?”

“Aye.”

“No wonder she can’t stand you! They’re the Capulets and we’re the Montagues! It’s the family business to hate us!”

“She and her father are estranged. They haven’t had contact in years.”

“Oh.”

“She’s also a thief who steals from bad guys like her father and donates everything to charity. It’s how we met.”

“At a charity event?”

“No, when she broke into one of my warehouses and stole two thousand diapers from me.”

After a moment, Liam says, “That can’t be true.”

“Hand to god, brother.”

“Huh. No wonder you’re in such a state.”

I groan in frustration. “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

After a slight pause, he says, “When was the last time you were serious about a woman?”

“Thirty years ago.”

“I’m not fucking around.”

“Neither am I. The last time I felt like this, I was ten years old. Her name was Katie Dunham. She lived down the street from us. Black hair. Green eyes. Big gap between her front teeth.”

He thinks for a moment. “The one who was always eating handfuls of dirt?”

“That was her sister, Lizzie.”

“So all these years—as an adult—you’ve never been in—”

“No,” I say curtly before he can continue. I couldn’t bear it if he said it out loud. “I came close once. But she belonged to someone else. This one…”

I drag a hand through my hair, struggling for the words to describe it. “This one is different. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. Like I’ve been set on fire. Like I’ve got cancer and only have a few weeks left to live. I’m terminal. I’m fucking desperate. It’s the worst.”

“It sounds like the worst,” says Liam, chuckling.

“And I haven’t even kissed her yet.”

In a conversation made up of many different types of pauses and silences, this one is the longest. It’s long and loud and echoes with incredulity. Then Liam says, “Have you recently had a fall? Hit your head on a sharp object?”

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. I turn around and pace in the other direction, savagely kicking a rock out of my path as I go.

“Because I’m concerned about your brain. It doesn’t seem to be working right.”

“It isn’t! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“This isn’t like you.”

“Jesus Christ on a crutch, I know!”

“You’re this worked up over a woman who stole from you, who doesn’t like you, and whom you’ve never even kissed?”

I say flatly, “This from the man who stalked his wife for a year before he mustered the courage to speak to her. And then kidnapped her, because that’s high on every woman’s list of most romantic gestures.”

“At least her father hasn’t tried to kill me six times.”

“He’s only tried to kill me twice.”

“I was talking about me. I ran things before you got there, remember?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“So between the two of us, Antonio Moretti has racked up eight assassination attempts.” Liam pauses. “Guess you won’t be inviting him to the wedding.”

He’s laughing at me. I can hear it in his voice. “Remind me to punch you in the nose the next time we see each other.”

“Oh, don’t sound so depressed. This is good for you!”

“How is it good for me?”

He stifles a laugh. “Pain builds character.”

I growl, “Piss off, wanker.”

“Don’t hang up on me yet, I have something helpful to tell you.”

Finally. “I’m listening.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women since meeting Tru, it’s that they hate—and I mean hate—to feel controlled.”

I furrow my brow in confusion. “How is that helpful?”

He muses, “How do I put this delicately?” After a beat: “You’re the most controlling arsehole who’s ever lived.”

“I’m commanding, not controlling. Like the captain of a ship.”

“I hate to break it to you, but women aren’t sailors. They don’t enjoy having orders barked at them while they’re swabbing the deck.”

I think of how many times since meeting Juliet that I’ve demanded this or that from her, and feel a faint flush of dismay.

“They also hate it when you’re overly dominating. Strong and confident is one thing, but caveman-like domination is another. Except in bed. Dominance is allowed in bed. Outside the bedroom, it’s a no-no. Oh, and don’t be condescending. That will make a woman want to set fire to your face and put it out with a hammer. Let’s see, what else?”

“It doesn’t matter what else. I’m already doomed.”

He ignores me and continues. “Don’t explain something to her unless she specifically asks for an explanation.”

“Like what, for instance?”

“Like anything. Economics. Parallel parking. How to correctly load the dishwasher.”

“Why is an explanation bad?”

“Who knows? It just is. They even have a word for it: mansplaining. It drives them crazy.”

I mutter, “This is why blowup dolls were invented.”

“I’m only getting started. We could be on the phone all night.” He pauses. “Maybe I should just email you a list.”

“What I’m hearing you say is, in a nutshell, don’t be me.”

“Exactly. Be anyone else but you. Be…Ryan Reynolds. Women seem to like him. He’s funny, charming, and self-deprecating.” Snicker. “I know those words are unfamiliar to you, but you can Google them to see what they mean.”

I stop pacing long enough to drag a hand over my face and sigh. “I’m so glad I called.”

“Me, too. I thought I’d never see the day when my hardass brother exposed his soft underbelly.”

I say flatly, “I don’t have a soft fucking underbelly. Good night.”

As I’m disconnecting, he’s saying loudly, “Remember—Ryan Reynolds!”

It must be so nice to be an only child.