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“I understand how—”
I scoff and stab my finger in his direction. “You don’t understand shit. You don’t even understand your own fucking feelings, Lucas. You’re a scared little boy stuck in the past, and I fucking hate you for it.” His face pales, his head falls forward, and this time, it’s him who steps back. His Adam’s apple slides slowly down his throat, and his hand dives into his pocket, no doubt searching for the knife he clings to like it’s his salvation.
I motion with my hand toward his pant pocket. “Look at you, you’re pathetic.”
His breathing stutters, and for the first time during my tirade, a surge of guilt hits me.
But as if a switch has been flipped, he snaps his head up, and his eyes are cold and devoid of any previous emotion, his blank expression sends a shiver down my spine.
“I’m sorry.” His monotone voice sends a sliver of nervousness through me, but before I can say another word, before I can get my body to move in his direction, he turns and strides toward the exit, leaving me with a feeling of dread. It spreads through me at a rapid speed, and I grip my hair, frustrated with myself for lashing out so viciously.
“Fuck!”
Every word I said was meant to hurt him, every word meant to cause him pain and to take away my own. Every word has done just that.
They were cruel, merciless, and unforgivable.
They were brutal.
And I regret each and every one of them.
Chapter
Eighteen
LUCAS
Iwalk out the door and feel like my legs will buckle, my chest so tight I can barely breathe. My hand goes toward my collar to loosen the button, but it’s already open, so panic sets in, which then spirals into terror.
Somehow, I make it down the sidewalk and turn into the nearest alley, away from everyone, away from their words.
Away from him.
I thought I’d reach out to Cole first, knowing he’s the brother who would understand my actions the most. Always so in tune with me. I wrongly thought he’d support me, tell me how to make things right when I’d made them so wrong.
My head falls back against the wall as I try and fail to catch my breath, the inability to command my own body sends my ass sliding down the wall and onto the ground. I bury my head in my hands as a cry for help catches in my throat. I want to scream, I want to shout for help, but Cole’s words come back to haunt me. I remain silent as the truth in his words is glaringly obvious.“You’re a scared little boy stuck in the past. Look at you, you’re pathetic.”
Just like back then, when I would remain silent.
My hand involuntarily finds my knife, and I tug it from my pocket. But it doesn’t bring me the comfort like it normally would, it brings me the past. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying in vain to block out the memories that taunt me, and nausea builds, threatening to spill over. I shake uncontrollably, trying and failing miserably to stop my past from colliding with my present.
I hatethat they make her watch. My cheeks and ears are burning hot, and I can feel my chest getting red too. I’ve tried to bury my face into my arms, but something draws me to her, and she stares at me as if she wants me to watch her too.
Occasionally, her eyes flick toward the guy hurting me, and normally, when I wince or something, she swallows hard but remains in the corner of the room with her legs drawn up and her arms folded over them, as if protecting herself from everything happening.
Her foster father is a piece of shit for letting her see this, but when my dad asked if he could have her, I was grateful he said she belonged to him and was waiting to make her his.
That meant she wasn’t being hurt like me.
She still had to get on her knees for that Russian prick, Viggo, and with every move he forces on her, I crumble a little inside that she has to do it. In my head, I make her a promise. A promise to protect her as soon as I can. I’ll make him suffer for hurting her. For the way he forces her to call him “sir” and the way he chuckled when he hit her face with his cock.
I hate having to do that shit to him, but I’d rather me have to do it than her. The guy enjoys humiliating you like it’s his hobby. He’s just another sick, twisted fuck who needs to die, and I wish it every time I come here.
But at least he doesn’t fuck her. That’s what I tell myself. I think I’d die inside if he did it to her too.
My teeth clench to stifle a whimper when my dad slams into me again. He likes it when he hurts me, but I refuse to give in to my agony, in front of Tia at least.
She plants her feet on the floor, and I lock eyes with her, giving her a subtle shake of my head. My eyes silently plead with her not to make a move. If she tries to step in, he’ll hit her, I know he will because I’ve felt firsthand the insanity that he wields.
