Images flash in my mind, broadcast from his tiny pea brain. Women crying, struggling, or simply unconscious under his slobbering, meaty body.
Anger slices through me like a razor blade, sharpening me into a tool that can correct his supremely shitty behavior.
Cinder’s face, that split second of fear that breaks her mask causes a storm to explode, detonating a bomb I didn’t know was inside me.
I was going to thrall him into marching to the nearest police station, confess his every sin, and make him wildly proclaim to other inmates he truly enjoys being bottom bitch, but now. . .
Now I know too much. I know the girls’ faces. I feel their pain. The need to protect Cinder from this monster overwhelms me. I catch the strands of thought floating around. He planned to return. He planned to catch her unawares in the back alleyway where she works and finish what he started.
That won’t be happening.
Not ever.
I release him enough from the thrall that he is more present in his mind, but unable to move.
I bare my fangs, letting him know what’s about to come.
I return to Cinder,concern tightening my face as I take in the angry red marks on her throat. “Are you alright?” My knuckle brushes the still wet smudge of blood on my jacket. Not that anyone would spot it against my black ensemble.
Cinder waves me off, but I catch the slight tremble in her fingers. “I'm fine. I had it handled.”
I nod, knowing better than to push.
Unlike me, Cinder possesses pride.
“I know you did. But I couldn't just sit by and watch that asshole put his hands on you.”
Something flickers in those violet depths, gone too quickly for me to decipher. Gratitude?
Nah, couldn’t be.
And I very much doubt she’d feel gratitude if she found out the state I left those two guys in. Though no one will find them after what I did.
Loose cannon.
Irresponsible.
I’ve been called all of these, but the public at large is ignorant of the deep river of violence that flows deep inside me. The one that doesn’t abide predators preying on the weak, whether they be fuck boys in bars or my father with his people.
Unfortunately, I also realize it may be the very trait that makes me most like my father.
Maybe the Mice are right to fear me. If they knew I had the power of thrall, they’d cut all contact immediately.
Cinder busies herself wiping down the bar. The angry slash of her mouth softens just a touch.
“You're impossible,” she mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. As she turns away to tend to another customer, I swear I catch the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. It's gone in a flash, replaced by her usual scowl, but it's enough to send a rush of heat straight to my chest.
One day, I'll coax a real smile out of her. For now, I'm content to sit back and watch my dark empress rule her domain.
Though for the first time, the idea of dissolving our little arrangement sends shoots of pain and anxiety through me. She’s perfect because of what she is, but now I’m starting to believe she’s perfect because ofwhoshe is.
She's a luxury I can't afford, a dream I have to let die before it even has a chance to take root.
If she learns who I truly am, she'll realize I'm just a shadow of the man I pretend to be. The confidence, the charm, the devil-may-care attitude—it's all a carefully crafted illusion, designed to hide the scars, the violence, the ugliness that’s at my core.
Scars inflicted by a father who saw me as nothing more than an unsatisfactory heir, riddled with weakness. And no matter how much I want to believe in the possibility of us, a part of me knows that in the end, I'll only drag her down. It’s all I know how to do.
No matter what I do, I will always carry a piece of my father inside me. A dark, twisted part that threatens to taint everything I touch. The darkness of my father's legacy seeps into every fiber of my being, staining me with the same cruelty and violence that runs in his blood.
