My life was a series of fucked up years sprinkled with moments of happiness. I was ancient in ways other twenty-three-year-olds were not. Strange, considering I’d never expected to make it to this age at all.
Fuck if I wasn’t grateful for it now that I had Brooklyn. From the first moment I saw her standing at the bar, a cloud of angel hair drifting around her and the most timid, innocent expression on her face as she tried to wave the bartender down, I’d been fucking hooked.
She was nothing like any woman I’d ever known. Quiet where they were bold. Introspective where they were brash. And broken as fuck. Just like me.
It could have been her jagged edges, barely hidden, that first drew me forward. Or the lush-as-fuck lips and expressive hazel eyes. The way she tasted drove me crazy, and if Delta hadn’t kept me so busy, there was no way I could have stayed away as much as I had. It had taken real effort to focus on work.
For so long, all I’d wanted was to have her in all ways. Our conversation tonight was almost unbelievable. Good shit just didn’t happen in my life, and I was waiting for her love to be yanked right out from under me.
What fate didn’t realize was I would tear this world to fucking pieces to keep her. No matter what was thrown at us, what obstacle or pain, I would be stronger. Brooklyn was done with fearing the next dawn. Both of us were going to have a happily ever after if I had to kill everyone else on Earth to make it happen.
But right now, she just wanted me to speak with her housekeeper. A simple enough request.
As I dropped off the bottom step, I heard clattering in a room off the main foyer and, figuring that was the kitchen, headed in that direction. My little bird had a nice house, and now she could enjoy it without fear.
If I could kill her motherfucker of a brother over and over again, I would. There was no amount of torture that would be enough, and my only regret about his death was that his heart had given out after less than twelve hours. At least his carcass didn’t go to waste, feeding my favorite of the big cats.
Thoughts of that coward cut off at the sound of a beautiful voice singing. The song started up so suddenly, and it was a familiar song: Brahm’s “Lullaby.”
My boots ground to a halt.
Not because it was weird that an old lady was singing a lullaby in the kitchen—even though it was super fucking weird—or because the song in question was the most common lullaby played by every baby toy that played music and, also, my favorite. But because I knew that voice.
When I was a kid, I’d had this old bear; it was brown and worn out and one of the few toys my father never threw into the fire. It had a recording of this lullaby inside it, and I’d played it over and over every time I was scared and alone.
Eventually, I’d worn out the mechanism inside, and it’d been a sad day when there was no more “Lullaby.” I’d felt a real sense of loss, and to hear it now was fucking with my head.
I could swear that Brooklyn’s housekeeper sounded exactly like that old bear. But… the fuck? How would that even be possible? Was her side hustle recording shit for toy companies?
Needing answers, I barged through the kitchen doors, startling the hell out of the poor lady there. When she spun, a plate in her hand that she held up like a crappy shield, I stood there staring at her like I’d seen a ghost.
Or my own damn twin. The female version with about twenty extra years on me.
“What the fuck?” I growled, because I was smooth like that. Handling heavy emotions was not my strong suit, and right now, the thoughts going through my head were a dark mess.
“Language, Dylan,” she scolded softly, recovering far quicker than I had. She placed the white dish back on the table.
Meanwhile, I was still standing there like an idiot with my mouth half open, hands fisted at my sides—because I knew this woman, even though I’d never met her. Mary looked just like me.
“I suppose Brooklyn sent you down here,” she said with a shake of her head. “I never could