Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,69

her eyes and I thought I saw my own feelings reflected back at me. I thought I could see inside of her, and I knew exactly what she felt.

I’ve never been so wrong.

Now she’s back here, like an angel that only visits the earth once every decade. I’m the fool who wants to fall down at her feet and beg her to take me back up to heaven with her.

A man like me doesn’t deserve heaven.

I can see the musicians finishing up their set. The event organizer is messing with the microphones, probably about to bring Yafeu Solomon up on stage to speak.

I remember what he said about wanting to “thank me in public.” I’ve got zero interest in that. I don’t want his thanks, or anybody’s attention.

So I start heading toward the exit.

It was stupid to come here in the first place. I don’t know why I let Riona rope me into it. What did I think was going to happen? That Simone would apologize? That she’d beg me to take her back?

She didn’t do it at the rally, so why would she do it here tonight?

I wouldn’t want that anyway.

She didn’t want me then, and she certainly doesn’t now. Her status has risen like a rocket. I’m the same gangster I was before—shined up a little, but still with bruised, battered knuckles if you look close enough.

I’m almost at the door when Riona intercepts me.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t want to hear Solomon’s speech.”

Riona brushes back a strand of bright red hair. She looks nice tonight—she always looks nice. But I’m not fooled by the dress or the heels. She’s a pit bull at her core. And I can see she’s debating how hard to push me, after she already strong-armed me into coming here tonight.

“I saw you dancing with Simone,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. We barely spoke.”

Riona sighs. “You know she’s only here for a couple of days . . .”

“Good,” I say roughly. “Then I probably won’t see her again.”

I push past Riona, leaving Heritage House.

After the heat and press of the dance floor, the cool night air is a relief. Riona picked me up on her way over, so she won’t care if I leave without her.

As I cross the parking lot, I see Mikolaj Wilk and Nessa Griffin pull up in Nessa’s Jeep. Miko’s driving, and Nessa is leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. Nessa’s laughing about something, and even Miko has a smile on his lean, pale face. His pale hair is ghostly in the dim interior of the car, and the tattoos rising up his neck look like a dark collar.

I raise my hand to wave at them, but they don’t see me, too wrapped up in each other.

Fucking hell. I don’t want to be jealous, but it’s hard not to feel bitter, when even the most unlikely couple can make it work, while Simone and I couldn’t.

Mikolaj hated the Griffins with every fiber of his being. He kidnapped Nessa, their youngest child. He murdered Jack Du Pont, Callum’s bodyguard and best friend. Yet somehow, after all that, he and Nessa fell in love, were married, and even made peace with the Griffin family.

I guess there’s something missing in me.

Some core component required for happiness.

Because the only time I’ve felt it were those few, short months with Simone. And she obviously didn’t feel the same.

I take an Uber back to my house. The lights are mostly out—Papa goes to bed early now, and Nero’s probably out with his girlfriend Camille. Only Seb’s bedroom light is on. I can see it high up on the third floor, like a lighthouse above the dark sea of the lawn.

I jog up the front walk. The pavement is cracked. The yard is full of dead leaves. The old oak trees have grown up so tall and thick that the house is too shady—perpetually dim, even in the daytime.

It’s still a beautiful old mansion, but it won’t last forever.

Aida’s son will probably never live here.

Maybe if Nero or Seb have a kid, there will be one more generation giving life to these old walls.

I don’t see myself ever having children. Even though I’m barely over thirty, I feel old. Like life already passed me by.

As I climb the steps to the front door, I see a package on the porch. It’s small, about the size of a ring box, wrapped in brown paper.

In my world, you don’t pick up unmarked packages. But this