Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(70)

“No. We’re the only two left.”

Left? I whisper, “Left as in working together?”

“Left as in alive.”

My heart clenches to a fist. “Your parents, too?”

His sigh is heavy. “Aye.”

He told me he was one of eight children. Including his parents, that’s ten in his family. But now there are only two? How is that possible?

“Liam, I’m so sorry.” I hesitate. “Was there an accident?”

His voice comes very low. “A fire.”

I think of the scars on his back, and how he agreed when I told him digging in graveyards was dangerous, and want to throw up. “Oh god.”

“Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it. I get it, but if he thinks I could sleep now, he’s crazy.

I lie awake long after he falls asleep, lost in thought as I listen to him breathe in the dark.

In the morning, he’s preoccupied. I don’t ask if he slept well, because I know he didn’t. He tossed and turned while I stared at the ceiling and wondered.

And speculated.

And brooded about Julia and the eighteen years.

“It won’t bring them back,” he shouted into the phone. I can’t stop thinking about it, or of the fire that wiped out almost his entire family. The man has so many mysteries, I can’t keep them all straight.

We have sex in the shower before he leaves, then again as soon as he walks in the door that night. He doesn’t even remove his clothing that time, he simply walks into the library, kisses me passionately, then pushes me face down onto the table on top of my open books. He lifts my skirt and yanks down my panties, then fucks me from behind, one hand on my hip and the other gripped around the back of my neck, holding me down.

It’s animalistic.

I love it.

After, he feeds me steak and mashed potatoes by hand. One forkful at a time as I sit on the edge of the island in the kitchen and he stands between my legs, watching with avid eyes as my lips close around the tines of the fork with every bite.

Stripped from the waist up, he’s sexy as hell, all those bulging muscles and tattoos burning my eyes.

I’m wearing one of his white dress shirts and nothing else. Every so often, he fondles my breasts or hips, leaning in to kiss my neck and breathe me in. I’m pretty sure we’re about to have sex on the kitchen island, too, but we’re interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing. It’s plugged into a recharger on the counter across from us.

Liam crosses to it and looks at the screen. Without a word, he unplugs the phone and hands it to me.

The screen reads, “#1 Dolly Fan.”

Dear god. It’s my mother.

When I glance up at Liam, he’s smirking.

He pulls out one of the stools tucked into the overhang of the island, settles his bulk onto it, props his elbows on the countertop, and rests his chin on his folded hands, making it clear he’s eager to listen in on the conversation.

I debate with myself for a millisecond, not at all certain this is a good idea, but quickly realize my mother will call everyone I know if she can’t get in touch with me. Might as well get this over with.

I hold the phone to my ear and pinch the bridge of my nose, bracing myself. “Hi, mama.”

“Hi, honey! It’s so good to hear your voice! How y’all doin’?”

As soon as I hear her Texas twang, I feel a rush of unexpected relief. “Right now? Feeling guilty that I don’t call you more often.”

She scoffs. “Don’t be silly, Truvy. You’ve got a busy life up there in the big city. You know nothin’ ever changes down here on the farm, anyway. Oh, except your daddy burned down the shed.”

I blink in surprise, though it should never surprise me that my father has set fire to anything. “His taxidermy trophy shed?”

“The very same. Smelled to high heaven. Burnin’ fur creates quite the stench.”

Grimacing, I say, “I can imagine.”

“Those poor little stuffed critters went up in a cloud of smoke so black and noxious the county health inspector himself showed up to see what was goin’ on.”

She clucks her tongue. “Your poor daddy was beside himself. You know it took him twenty years to hunt and stuff all those varmints. Now he’ll have to start all over from scratch.”

I can’t help but laugh at the image of my father mourning a smoking pile of charred stuffed animal corpses, his precious collection. Each of them had a little gold plaque on the wooden stand they stood on with their name—yes, he named them all—and the date they were “immortalized.”

It’s a miracle I grew up halfway normal.

“How did it happen?”

My mother’s voice turns dry. “He got himself a new Weber barbeque, didn’t he? A big, ol’ shiny gas one, with flames shootin’ out of the grill like the exhaust on that rocket-powered ship Evil Knievel jumped the Grand Canyon in. And he had to put the blasted thing right next to the shed because he wanted to enjoy his two favorite hobbies at the same time, the big dummy.”

I’m laughing so hard, my cheeks hurt. “Daddy burned down his taxidermy shed with his supercharged barbeque?”

“Mmhmm, he sure did. Ruined those nice T-bone steaks I got at the butcher’s that very mornin’, too. He’s been sleepin’ on the couch since last week.”