The Wedding Pact (The O'Malleys #2)(12)

She didn’t like the answers she came up with.

They didn’t really matter. The past was dead and gone, just like Devlin. She pressed a hand to her chest, stopping at the top of the stairs, feeling like she’d just run ten miles. Devlin. One of her brothers was dead, and everyone was going on as if nothing had changed—as if their world hadn’t turned to dust around them.

It wasn’t fair, and she knew it. Life went on, whether they wanted it to or not.

She took a deep breath and kept walking, her bare feet padding over the cool wood floors. She wasn’t a child. She knew life had to go on. It couldn’t come to a full stop just because her heart was so broken she didn’t think it’d ever recover. Devlin had been only twenty, three years younger than her, and growing up they’d always been close. Of all her brothers, he hadn’t expected her to change. He’d been perfectly content to share the comfortable silences she was so fond of, broken only to bring up something interesting that one of them was currently reading. And he’d managed to accept the weight of the burden their family placed on them, while still striving for more.

And now his dreams were ashes in the wind, whisking hers away with them.

Their father liked to say that great privilege brought great responsibility with it. He was a liar. He hadn’t been the one forced to make compromise after compromise. He was completely content to move his children around like pieces of furniture, aligning them to his satisfaction to keep the O’Malley clan strong. What did their individual happiness matter in the grand scale of the family’s safety?

Not even a tiny bit.

Her stomach lurched, leaving her lightheaded, and Sloan paused to lean against the wall. She might have gotten away with her midnight wanderings in the old redone farmhouse, but there were too many people here. It was only a matter of time before one of her well-meaning siblings guided her back to her bedroom. Or the guards reported her to her father.

Imagining how pleasant that conversation would be had her picking up her pace. She passed Keira’s door, hearing strains of some hard rock song on the other side of the door. It was selfish to think Sloan was the only one suffering. Her youngest sister had taken Devlin’s death just as hard—if not harder. She’d started drinking. A lot. Sloan knew that Carrigan chalked it up to her age, but she wasn’t so sure. Keira drank like she was trying to escape the thoughts in her head. That kind of thing didn’t simply disappear over time.

It got worse.

She touched the door, hesitating. Should she say something? Try to get Keira to talk to her? Sloan had always been good at listening, but broaching this subject was going to reopen wounds that hadn’t even had a chance to close, much less heal.

So she kept walking.

Carrigan’s door opened as she approached, and her older sister stepped into the hall, wearing a sheath dress that left little to the imagination. She froze when she saw Sloan. “You’re up late.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

For a second she thought—hoped—Carrigan would let it go. She obviously had plans to sneak out, and her skin nearly twitched with impatience. But then she stepped back into her room. “Let’s talk.”

More talking. Sloan let loose a silent sigh and obeyed. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could retreat into her room and lose herself in a book. It was the only escape that worked these days, the only thing that took away the harsh edge of reality.

Carrigan perched on the edge of her bed and gave her a long look. “Father’s decided that he’s tired of waiting for me.”

She’d known this was coming. They all had. Her sister’s ability to hold him off for this long was something to be commended, but it couldn’t last forever. “How long?” It felt curiously like she was asking how long Carrigan had left to live.

“My birthday.”

Her breath stalled in her chest. “But…” Sloan looked down at her hands, fighting to get the words past the concrete block in her throat. “Marriage.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that it had worked out for Teague—to maybe even suggest that Carrigan would get the same results—but she stopped. Their brother had been fortunate to the point of unbelievability. Lightning never struck the same place twice, and those were the odds for Carrigan to make a love match from the list of men their father had provided.

“I know.” Carrigan took her hands. “I didn’t drag you in here so we could have a pity party. Things are the way they are. I just wanted to give you as much of a heads-up as I could.”

Because she was next.

The realization settled inside her, turning her blood to ice and her brain into a worthless buzz. As soon as Carrigan was safely carted away into a marriage, their father would turn his eye on her. She’d never pretended the Catholic devotion that her sister had, not to the point where it would be believable that she was considering joining a convent. Even if she had, their father wasn’t likely to fall for the same ruse twice. No, he’d strike quickly, while she was still young enough to be valuable. Pliable.