Page 177 of Wicked Savage

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

This has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do as a mother. To write letters to each one of my children as though it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to them is like a knife to my chest. But it just might be the last time.

Our life is dangerous, and at times, I forget that. So there may come a time when I won’t be here to hold them, to guide them, to love them. I want more than anything for them to know how much they mean to me even when I’m not there to show it. To tell them how special they are.

There is so much I could possibly miss out on. Their weddings, the first time they become parents, the sense of overwhelming love they will come to know as I did when I became a mother.

Tears fall down my cheeks, but I blot them away with my fingertips. I just have one more letter to write, this time to the person Cillian will hopefully one day fall in love with.

Whoever she is, I’m sure she’ll be special, and he will cherish her with everything he has. Because that’s who he’s always been: a protector.

To the woman who will one day marry my Cillian,

I wish we were meeting under different circumstances. That I could sit across from you, hold your hands in mine, and tell you in person how grateful I am that you love my son. But life doesn’t always give us what we want, and unfortunately, I’m not around to welcome you the way I should have been.

I hope that doesn’t make you sad. And more importantly, I hope you don’t let him be sad. Because if I know my Cillian, he’s already found a hundred different ways to blame himself for my death, no matter the circumstances. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, even when it’s not his burden to bear.

Please don’t let him do that. Remind him that not everything is in his control, that fate has a mind of its own, and sometimes we don’t get to rewrite the endings.

I have no doubt that he loves you with every piece of his soul. He’s not perfect, no one is, but love like his is rare. And with love comes mistakes, comes hurt, comes lessons that will test the both of you. But I hope you always find your way back to each other. There is strength in forgiveness, in choosing each other over and over again, no matter how difficult life becomes. Believe me, I know that all too well.

Cillian is intense, stubborn, protective. He loves deeply, sometimes to a fault. But beneath that, he is still the boy I raised, the one with a heart too big for his own good. Love him fiercely, stand by his side, and never let him forget that he is worthy of happiness.

And for you—my daughter now too—I want you to know that you are enough. That you are worthy of the love he gives you and of every happiness life has to offer.

Hold on to one another. Cherish the good days, fight through the hard ones, and never forget that love, real love, is always worth fighting for.

With all my heart,

Mom

* * *

DINARA

I wipe away the stream of tears running down my cheeks as I clutch the letter against my chest. I don’t know what I expected to find in her words, but what I found was peace.

Placing the paper on the nightstand beside me, I cling to the quiet sadness of knowing I’ll never meet the woman who wrote those beautiful words.

I hate that. I hate that it was my family—my uncle—who took such a wonderful person away. She should have been here for our wedding, should’ve danced with her son. Instead, all he has left of her is these final words.

Staring up at the ceiling, I think about my own mother. What she would have said to me if she’d ever written a letter to me. She’d probably tell me to be strong, to never take anyone’s shit, to not let the world beat me down the way my father did. She’d tell me she was sorry for staying, that she wished she could’ve given me a better life.

Or at least that’s what I want to believe.

She was my rock. The only thing that kept me from falling into the same darkness that took her. And when she was gone, I didn’t know how I’d survive.

But I did. We don’t realize our own strength until we’re forced to face the impossible, and that was what losing my mother felt like to me.

Shutting off the bedside lamp, I roll onto my side, willing myself to sleep. But it doesn’t come. Not without him. As I lie alone in this massive bed, everything feels too big. Too empty.

My phone chimes on the nightstand, and I grab it quickly, my heart flipping at the sight of his name on the screen.

We talked earlier, right after I got back from his father’s. I told him how Patrick had accepted me, and I could hear the happiness in his tone. But I didn’t mention the letter. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was afraid the reminder of her would shake the fragile foundation of what we’ve rebuilt.

But now, after reading it, I need to tell him. It was too beautiful.

“Hey, you,” I answer softly.

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