The Warrior's Gamble

Sneak Peek: Book 3

Read an excerpt from the first chapter of Iris and Sean's story, The Knight's Peace

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Chapter 1

Iris

8 Years Ago, Dublin

Four days until my sixteenth birthday. That's the day I have to bury my mother. An immeasurable sense of grief overtakes me as I watch my father try to stay strong, my brother throw the dirt over the coffin. I'm the only one sobbing. I can't stop myself, no matter how hard I try.

My mom and I were always close. Sometimes I felt like she was the only person in the entire world who ever understood me.

When her cancer diagnosis came six months ago, I had hope that things would get better. That's the thing about being a kid. Your parents feel like they can lie to you. They made me think she could get better.

Despite watching my mother quickly deteriorate, I let myself believe.

Everyday, Mom and I spent most of our time together.

She taught me everything I know about life: school, friends, boys, how to be my own person.

"You will always march to the beat of your own drum, don't let anyone make you feel bad for that," she would tell me before ruffling my forever tangled hair.

Mom's the reason I got into reading, writing, star-gazing...She's my reason for everything.

I love my dad and brother, too.

But they don't understand me.

I can see it all over their faces. Especially today as I sob over my mother's open grave. The ground is wet today. An ugly spring day. One that smells like dirt and rain, not a ray of sun to be had. Mom would hate that. My mom was sunshine. She was life, beauty, radiance.

She deserved to be buried on a sunny day.

"Pull it together," my only brother, James tells me under his breath as he pulls me to my feet. Emotions make someone weak. That's what my dad says. Both he and James are strangely stoic. Although, it's unsurprising.

My dad is the boss of the Dublin mafia.

He runs the city from the underground up to the politicians.

Some might say he's more powerful than most politicians and diplomats.

Richer, too.

I've never seen my father cry. Never seen him show emotion. Even today as he buries the woman who gave him two children, he stands perfectly still, broad shoulders stiff.

My cousin, Alistair, has traveled from the US to be with us. He's here with his ma and my other cousins. He pulls me into a big bear hug, one only he is capable of.

"You can always call me, yeah?" he tells me.

I nod absently, afraid to speak, afraid if I say anything I'll break down into another messy pile of nothing but grief.

That night, I lay awake, tossing and turning. I feel so exhausted, but my body can't sleep. I need to move, walk, do something.

I walk down the steps. Our old manor is pitch black save the glow of the light coming from my father's den. I hear low, hushed voices. My brother and him are speaking low and careful, as to not wake me.