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“Is that right?” He flashed a manic grin. “And where’s the money?”
“Haven’t got it yet.” He glanced around, sweat prickling on his palms and the nape of his neck. “Where’s Pax?”
That demonic glint in Don’s eyes intensified, the sight of it drying out Roman’s mouth. “You would know better than me.”
He had to go. He had to leave—now, right now.
Roman turned, his spine tingling as he left his back vulnerable to his dad.
Donovan was there instantly.
He gripped him by the shoulder of his shirt and slammed him into the wall so hard, he shook the hallway.
“Something’s up with you,” his dad hissed, breath that reeked of beer wafting across his face.
“Let go.” Roman’s heart was going to explode.
Don pushed harder, his knuckles bruising Roman’s shoulder. The wall yielded under the pressure, a thin crack splitting up toward the ceiling.
The men in the living room laughed at something on TV.
Roman felt the gold of his irises darken, felt the shade of his hair deepen into black. “Let. Go.” The shadows in the room stirred in response to his rage, preparing to strike—but his dad’s stirred faster, and Roman could hear them whispering.
Donovan smiled, black swallowing his eyes. “Make me.”
Roman didn’t; he knew better than to cross certain lines. Had Paxton never been born, he wouldn’t even be here. Might have even killed his dad by now for all the shit he’d done to him.
Or killed himself—whichever came first.
Don’s smile grew. “That’s what I thought,” he hissed, the tip of his nose nearly brushing Roman’s. Roman tried to turn his head, but his dad kept mirroring him, forcing him to make eye contact. He came in close to his ear and whispered, “You’re a pussy.” He pulled back. Evaluated him, head tilting from side to side, scarred mouth twitching. “Do I have a pussy for a son?”
Words. These were just words. It was nothing compared to what Donovan usually did to him, especially when piss-drunk like this. Words, he’d take. He just didn’t want to be put in that room again.
Donovan leaned in. Gripped his shirt tight, twisting. “Pussy,” he hissed. The shadows echoed him, their spine-tingling, otherworldly voices like the hiss of water thrown over hot coals. Pussy, they mimicked, the sound hollow and pure fucking evil. Pussy. Something akin to laughter threaded through the echo. “Say it,” Don demanded, bringing his face in even closer—breathing on him. “Say you’re a fucking pussy.”
Roman growled, “You’re a fucking pussy.”
His dad slammed him into the wall again, the back of Roman’s head banging into it so hard, he nearly bit his tongue. “One more wrong word from you,” Don hissed, “and Paxton will be the one going into that room.” His hot, yeasty breath drifted across Roman’s face. “Now say it. Say it, or I’ll break that kid in half, and I’ll make you watch.”
He looked his dad square in the eye. Flexed his jaw and said, “I’m a fucking pussy, Dad. Proud of me?”
Donovan’s new smile was even colder than the last, and Roman hated that he saw a hint of himself in those genetics—the curve of his mouth, the angle of his eyes, the shape of his jawline. “Not the least fucking bit.”
He let go with a shove that caused bits of the wall to dust the floor. He drifted back several paces, face still lit with a drunk, cocky smile, before turning around fully and heading for the living room.
Roman exhaled, realizing he’d held the air in his lungs nearly the whole time his dad had him pinned to the wall. His shoulder ached, and his shirt was still warm from his dad’s grip.
He wanted to have a shower. Burn himself in the water.
“You make sure you bring that kid home when you find him,” Donovan called. He picked up his beer and took a swig. Lifted the bottle as if in a toast. “He’s got a few lessons to attend.”
Like hell he’d bring Paxton to this place.
He left, not bothering to search the rest of the house. Pax wasn’t here; he could sense it, could see with his Sight that his aura hadn’t been here in a while. Days, maybe. If he was lucky.
Good.
As he neared the door, Donovan’s woman, Clare Slade, came down the stairs. Paxton’s mom. She was a Helen Devlin lookalike, right down to the freckles on her thin nose, her long, black hair. Clare had no idea that she was no better than a replacement—practically a clone. Donovan had burned every photo of Helen the day she’d died, refusing to tolerate any reminders of the woman he claimed to have loved.
