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My brother was at the front of my father's desk, his ass propped up on the edge, arms crossed over his expensive silk shirt, the light blue color washing him out. It was a silly little thing to take pleasure in. But I did.
That was until my gaze shifted to my father behind his desk.
And he wasn't alone.
Helga was situated on a chair beside where he was standing, hands holding onto her knees that were always achingly sore.
"Hi, herzchen," she said, giving me her usual warm smile, but there was no mistaking the shaking in her voice.
Shaking.
Helga.
My Helga.
The most deceptively strong woman I knew.
I didn't even need to look to know, but I did. My gaze shifted down the length of my father's arm, noting a small speck of red on the cuff of his sleeve, making my stomach pitch, wondering if it belonged to Charlie.
But the sinking became a burning rage.
He had no right.
To put his hands on him.
To spill his blood.
He didn't deserve to even have a speck of such a good man on him.
But there was no more time to dwell on that as my eyes went lower, finding a sight I had seen enough not to be shocked by its appearance. It's black and metal appearance.
But it was in his hand.
The hand closest to Helga.
He was going to use my love for her to secure my compliance.
My enslavement.
My teeth clenched so hard that the pain ricocheted up through my jaw, the sharp agony somehow making me able to think through my swirling torrent of thoughts.
"Sit down. We're going to have a little talk," my father suggested, tone as icy as my soul felt as I lifted my chin, widened my stance, dared him to come closer, put his hands on me, push me into a chair. "See, this right here is the problem," he said, tisk-tisking at me like he was some disappointed parent instead of a madman with a gun who had a hole where his heart belonged.
"What is, Dad?" I snarled. "That I finally found my backbone."
"Remember what happened to your mother when she thought to find hers, Helen."
"There's a difference here," I told him, not sure how the words were coming out audibly through grinding teeth.
"What's that?"
"She was under some false illusions about you. Me? Not so much."
"False illusions," he mused, brows knitting ever-so-slightly in a way I knew for interest, whether he would express that or not.
"She believed there was some goodness - albeit buried incredibly deep - in you somewhere. Me? I know better."
"Do you now?" he asked, voice getting harder, hard as my heart.
"And she also thought she could ask for her freedom. I know there is no point in that. I need to take it."
"Little girl," he scoffed, shaking his head like one would at a foolish child. "You have gotten ideas in your head that don't belong there."
"Ideas. Like realizing I am not chattel to be bartered for slaughter," I snapped, voice fierce enough to make Helga jerk back slightly. "I am not a possession you can trade for a more secure supply chain."
"I see Charlie shared my business more than I realized. Tell Bill and James that the plans have changed," he said, speaking to my brother though his eyes were still on my face. "He doesn't get to crawl away from this after all."
I didn't defend Charlie mainly because the truth came from an even more vulnerable person.
Helga.
Who had been the one to tell me the truth.
He was away already.
It would take them a while to find him.
But Helga was right here with a gun just inches from her body.
Sometimes life gave you nothing but hard choices.
"What is the end-goal here? To kill everyone I care about? Because, really, what kind of plan is that... taking away everything I care about? Do you think it will make me submissive, would have me falling into line?"
"You never used to disobey me."
My lips curved up at that. "Is that what you think? I disobeyed you every chance I got. While keeping it a secret to avoid a beating. What?" I asked when a muscle in his jaw started ticking. "Disappointed that you can't sell me off as a virgin anymore, Dad?" I spat.
He paused, weighing his words, then shrugging. "I can say whatever I want. By the time he finds out the truth, it will be too late anyway."
I had been right.
When I was five years old.
And thought I was surrounded by monsters.
But it wasn't the under-the-bed or inside-the-closet variety I had worried about.
It was the flesh and blood sort.
The kind that didn't go away when you bathed the room in light.
The kind that only someone bigger, stronger, scarier could take down.
It was maybe the first time in my life that I realized that was my job.
If not me, then who?
