Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
It redoubled, nearly stabbing at Brendan as Maxwell bent and, with a flourish, pulled the back door of the sedan open.
The man and woman who stepped out didn’t carry themselves with the poise of royalty—but they had a certain sense about them nonetheless, the consciousness of their station subconsciously imbuing their mannerisms, the way their gazes swept across the hustle and bustle around them. She was tall, square-shouldered, with Cillian’s creamy pale brown eyes; he was average height, lean, with a tousled crop of silvered hair that still retained some hints of its original dark brown sheen. He could see something of Cillian in features engraved into fine, dignified lines by age, Brendan thought.
But he could see none of Cillian’s fire.
Mr. and Mrs. Tell wore a suit and a floral print dress, respectively, less royal raiment and more Sunday best. All in all they looked like ordinary people who put their pants on one leg at a time—and ordinary parents who lit up with smiles as they drew closer, Mrs. Tell with her hands outstretched, Mr. Tell more reserved but still beaming at his son. Cillian managed one last quick look at Brendan that practically screamed Save me before his mother swooped down on him, pulling him into her arms.
“Cillian. You’re home,” she said joyfully, hugging him tight. “I’ve been so worried. The stories Maxwell tells me…”
“Maxwell exaggerates,” Cillian muttered, and awkwardly patted his mother’s back, nodding over her shoulder to Mr. Tell. “Mum. Father. This is—”
“It’s Mr. Lau, isn’t it?” Mrs. Tell’s demeanor noticeably chilled as she offered a hand to shake.
To Drake.
Drake recoiled, blanching, and shot Brendan a wide-eyed look before actually stuffing his hand behind his back. “Er. I’m not Brendan. I’m his agent.” He jerked his head to the side. “That’s Brendan, ma’am.”
Mrs. Tell froze, a touch of embarrassment crossing her features—before vanishing as she turned to look at Brendan. And there—there was the mask of royalty, drawing herself up as she studied him with cool judgment.
“I see,” she said. “There were certain things no one chose to inform me of, it would seem.” Her accent was much like Cillian’s, but crisper and with some syllables flung like bullets. She shot her son a narrow-eyed look. “Like the fact that he’s dating a man old enough to be his father.”
Cillian smacked a hand to his face. “Mum, don’t start.”
“I absolutely will start!” she flared. “I let you run off to the mainland, and now you’ve fallen into the hands of some predator—”
“Pardon you,” Brendan bit off. “I don’t need to be called a predator by someone strangling her son to death by her own apron strings.”
Mr. Tell pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, sighing. “…oh dear.”
While Mrs. Tell snapped back to Brendan, her face reddening. “Are you always this rude, Mr. Lau, or is that a refinement of age?”
“I give the same courtesy I receive,” Brendan retorted. “You chose to call me a predator.”
“Cillian’s barely a child—”
“That ‘child’ is almost thirty years old and afraid to choose something he wants for himself because of you,” Brendan snarled. “Maybe if you stopped infantilizing him—”
“Everybody fucking time out,” Cillian growled, slashing one hand out. “Mum, stop being shitty to my boyfriend. Boyfriend, stop reading my mother for fucking filth, I—you’re both just arseholes,” he strangled out.
Before turning and stalking away, trudging up the rocky shore toward the road, his shoulders stiff and yet still, every time someone called his name, snapping a hand up in a jerky wave. Brendan stared after him. So did Cillian’s parents.
“Well,” Mrs. Tell said, “I suppose we are responsible for that.” She sighed, then, dusting her hands together briskly. “Fine, come along then. Let’s get everyone settled into quarters.”
She turned and bustled right back to the car, then, leaving Mr. Tell standing there. “Ah,” he said, and dipped his head to Brendan, awkward and strained. “Nice to meet you.”
Slamming car doors. A frigid look from Maxwell. And then it was just Brendan and Drake, islands in the sea of chaotic motion all around them.
“That went well,” Brendan muttered.
“I’ve actually seen worse,” Drake said. “Now can we find a ride and get inside where it’s not so fucking cold?”
l
OF ALL OF CILLIAN’S BAD ideas, this had potentially been the worst.
Bringing the crew here. Bringing his fake boyfriend here. Introducing Brendan to his mother as if that wouldn’t make her double down and start questioning his every life decision, digging her heels in and shortening the leash on his autonomy even further.
Brendan hadn’t been wrong about her strangling Cillian with her apron strings.
But had he had to say it out loud?
Cillian didn’t see Brendan again until later that evening. He’d watched as the entire entourage packed up and started up toward the manor, Brendan and Mr. Anderson disappearing into one of the trucks—but Cillian had chosen to walk back, as if he could delay stepping foot into those slate courtyards and slipping back into a life so ordinary that nothing had changed in his absence, Sclata opening up to fit him right back into the same place he’d occupied for his entire life. He walked the same paths he’d walked for years, making his way on foot up through the winding roads, seeing the same faces he’d known all his life and yet somehow seeming to belong to strangers, now, after just a few short weeks away.