Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,100
her to get away before I said or did something I’d regret.
I wasn’t going to lay a hand on her—I’d never do that.
But if some stranger had walked up to me asking the time, I definitely might have murdered them.
I could never hurt Simone.
Even now, filled with bitterness and fury, I know that to be true.
And I am bitter. I’m as deeply, wretchedly bitter as a whole barrel of quinine. I’m soaking in it, pickling in it.
She stole our baby. She raised him on the other side of the world. I never saw him grow in her belly. I never saw him learn to crawl or walk. I never heard his first words. And most of all, I never got to raise him. Never got to teach him, help him, care for him. Instill in him a sense of his culture, his family, his heritage, from my side.
Instead he was raised by Simone and Yafeu-fucking-Solomon, who I still hate. Yafeu got his revenge on me, and I didn’t even know it. I tried to take his daughter from him, and he stole my son instead.
I stalk back and forth in the park, radiating so much rage that people jump out of my way on the paths.
It’s not enough. I need to vent some other way.
So I stomp back to my car, still pulled up in front of the hotel, and jump into the open convertible. There’s a pile of blankets in the backseat—I’d been planning to take Simone for a drive out to the dunes later. I thought we’d sit on the sand and look at the stars.
What a fucking fool I was.
I roar away from the curb, speeding recklessly down the road. Usually I drive carefully—not today. Nothing but cold wind in my face can dash away the heat burning behind my eyes.
She betrayed me. That’s why I’m so angry. I was willing to accept that Simone left me. I could forgive her for that. All the pain it caused me could be washed away by having her back again.
But this . . . nothing can give me those nine years back with my son.
Fucking hell, I barely looked at him!
He was right there next to me in the hotel room, and I hardly gave him a moment’s thought.
I try to remember now.
I know he was tall, slim. He had curly hair and big, dark eyes. A lot like Seb when he was little, actually.
Picturing his face, I feel the first stab of something other than anger. A fragile flutter of anticipation.
My son was handsome. He had an intelligent expression. He looked strong and capable.
I could meet him now, meet him properly.
That must be why Simone told me about him.
She didn’t have to—I had no idea. She could have kept pretending he was her nephew.
I remember asking her about that at the Heritage House event. She turned red and hesitated before she answered. GODAMNIT! How could I have been so stupid? There must have been a hundred hints of what was going on, nine years ago up until today.
If I would have gone to London, I would have found out. I would have seen Simone pregnant. Instead I stayed in Chicago, sulking.
I thought about chasing after her. Hundreds of times. I even bought a plane ticket once.
But I never went. Because of pride.
I told myself she didn’t want me, and I couldn’t make her change her mind.
I never considered that there might be another reason she left. Something outside the two of us.
Now I feel something else: a jolt of sympathy.
Because I realize how sick and scared she must have been. She was eighteen years old. Barely an adult.
I think of how much I’ve changed since then. I was impulsive, reckless, a poor decision-maker. Can I blame her if she made a bad choice, too?
If it even was a bad choice.
I think of all the stupid things I did over those nine years—all the conflict and bloodshed, all the mistakes I made . . .
Simone raised our son in Europe, away from all of that. He was healthy, happy, and safe.
I’m not glad she did it—I can’t be.
But . . . I understand why.
I picture her standing in the park, shaking with fear of the thing she had to tell me. Why was she so scared? Because she thought I’d hurt her? Because she thought I’d steal her son?
No. If those were the reasons, she wouldn’t have told me at all.