Sinner's Gin (Sinners, #1)

They’d lost Dude to the allure of the backyard sometime in the early morning hours when Kane woke up long enough to relieve himself. A couple of barks later, his brother Braeden called out to the dog to come to breakfast, and that was the last Kane saw of him. Taking advantage of having the bed to themselves, Kane woke Miki up enough to suckle him to spill into Kane’s mouth, and they fell asleep wrapped around one another, murmuring silly things that made no sense once Kane reached full consciousness.

Leaving ibuprofen and a bottle of water on the side table next to the bed, Kane leaned over and kissed his lover on the forehead. Miki stirred, grumbling about a slight chill, and Kane drew the duvet over him, covering the singer’s scar-damaged legs and belly.

“Stay here,” Kane whispered to his slumbering lover. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone either.”

Surprisingly, the coffeepot was full. Even more startlingly, his father was scooping sugar out of the lamb-shaped bowl Brigid had picked up at a yard sale, measuring out two teaspoons into his coffee mug. Captain Donal Morgan glanced at his second son and reached for another mug, handing it and the spoon to Kane.

He grew up in the huge kitchen, playing under the table his mom used in the middle of the room. When he was older, Kane learned to cook there, his younger siblings playing with dolls and cars safely tucked away near his feet. The room was bright, old-fashioned double-pane windows letting sun in when the red gingham curtains were drawn back, and while the walls changed colors over the years, the knotty-pine floor remained as smooth as glass and clean enough to eat off of. Comfortable and lived in, it was the room they were usually drawn to first, either for coffee or to talk to Brigid, who’d spend hours listening to their troubles.

It was also where Kane could sometimes find his father, and in the middle of the night, right before his parents went to bed, they could be found there together, dancing to something slow playing on the radio and murmuring to one another in Gaelic.

“There’s creamer in the icebox, son,” Donal rumbled. “And some muffins yer mum made if yer hungry. Blueberry, I think.”

Even after thirty-two years, Kane still wasn’t used to being tall enough to meet his father’s eyes straight on. It seemed just yesterday he needed a boost up to see the twins asleep in their cribs, Donal’s broad hands circling his waist while the man instructed his wide-eyed second son that he was responsible for keeping his younger siblings safe from harm. Kiki and Riley were now fully grown, both junior inspectors in a police force their father made his… and their… lives.

Connor looked the most like their father, rough-set and seemingly hewn from granite, but Kane could still see his own face in his father’s solid features. Larger than life, Donal loomed over his brood, a quiet sentinel with steely blue eyes and silver-flecked black hair who spoke in a gravelly Cork County brogue he’d never lost. He raised his children with laughter and soft words, tempering his wife’s fiery hot-headedness with a steady calm. A peacemaker at heart, Donal still waded into the epic battles fought amongst his offspring, separating out the instigators from the victims and meting out punishments arduous enough to wring out the last ounce of spare energy the troublemakers had in them.

He was the man Kane wanted to be. Especially now, with Miki sleeping in the spare room, Kane longed to be able to slow dance with his lover in the middle of a kitchen before they tumbled off into bed, where Miki’s melodic voice would cry Kane’s name until they both drifted off to sleep.

“Yer man still out for the count?” The question would have sounded odd coming from any other Irish-born cop large enough to bench press a manatee, but Kane was used to his father’s unshakeable sensibilities. “From what I hear, he’s had a bit of a rough time of it.”

“Yeah, it’s been a shitty couple of weeks,” Kane mumbled, sweetening his coffee, then taking a sip.

It tasted like every sour, bitter, cop house coffee he ever had, another legacy his father passed on to his children. For all of his good points, the man couldn’t make a good pot of coffee to save his life, but Kane drank it anyway, used to the bad brew. The muffins smelled good, but his stomach wasn’t ready for breakfast. Glancing up at his dad, he grinned when Donal grabbed the butter dish from the fridge, then reluctantly put it back, pulling out the heart-friendly spread his wife bought for him.

“Yer mum wants me to stay healthy.” Donal grimaced and waved the tub of cholesterol-free spread at his son. “Sometimes, I think she’s the one who wants me dead. Have ye tasted any of this shite? It’s like sucking on motor oil. But, eh, she loves me. It’s how she shows it. Ye take care of yer boy in there that way?”

“Dad, I love you,” Kane said over his coffee cup’s rim, “But I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about Miki. Not yet. Maybe in a bit. Right now, it’s too… new between us, you know?”

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