Page 60 of Royal Desire

Dad twists my collar. I feel the pinch tightening at my neck. “I was right, it is all about her. You sampled the pussy, but it’s time to move on. Dump her. She’s trash and comes from a trash family.”

It doesn’t matter how much I try to keep my cool just to spite him, I can’t when it comes to Ruby. I’m still fisting the fork. I bring it up and put it to the side of his neck.

My mother panics. “Payne!”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Dad’s eyes flare. I should’ve had this conversation after he’s downed a quarter of a handle.

I take the fork and twist the prongs on his skin. “I don’t want her name on your lips ever again. She’s none of your business. It’s my life. I’m going to State followed by law school, and then I’m going to marry Ruby Sinclair. So fuck you, Dad, and fuck your precious company. I want nothing to do with you or your money.”

He grips me harder before giving me a shove. I fly back, my foot catches on the rug, and I land on my ass. Dad stalks toward me and talks with his index finger pointed my way. “You’re going to Harvard and getting a degree in finance. The Sinclair girl will be out of the picture one way or another. You’re a fucking kid and don’t know what you want let alone what you need.”

I stand and get back in his face. We’re nose-to-nose. I’m not backing down. Not about college and never about Ruby. “You think I want to be like you? A functioning alcoholic who buys his way out of one DUI after another? A husband who is just fine keeping his wife at home in a constant state of drunk so she won’t give a shit when he cheats on her for years on end?”

Mom chokes back a sob, but I don’t look away from the man I hate more than anything.

Dad puts his finger in my chest and lowers his voice. “Watch yourself, Payne. You still live under this roof. I can and will control you.”

I huff one non-humorous laugh. “You don’t even bother denying it. How sad is that for Mom?”

A vein appears at his temple. “I’ll make your life fucking miserable.”

“Yeah, because you’re a real peach right now.” I smile. “Hit me. You know you want to.”

Mom’s voice is high enough to rock the chandelier. “Owen, no!”

Dad hesitates.

“Do it.” I egg him on. He hasn’t hit me in eleven months, one week, and two days. Yeah, I keep track. I always have. “It’s been a minute, huh? Are you afraid I’ll hit you back? Hell, you’re probably pissed that I refuse to. I’ll never—fucking ever—give you that satisfaction. Being not like you is my only goal in life.”

That does it.

He loses it.

Mom screams.

And the counter flips back to zero when his fist connects with my face. Even I’m surprised—he never goes for the face. Unlike his string of DUIs in the city that keep getting swept under the rug, the last thing he wants to do is air our filthy laundry to the world.

I barely right myself from the blow. My hand comes to my temple where his fist connected with my eye. It’s an agony I’m too familiar with. It’s different than anything I’ve ever gotten in football. When a hit comes from a parent, it touches a place inside that isn’t tangible.

But this time, the proof won’t be hidden on my ribs or my back. Or my legs.

I pull my hand back when I feel warm liquid. A cut under my eye.

“You’re bleeding!” Mom cries and tries to rush to me, but I put a hand up to stop her. “You’ll need stitches. You can’t have a scar on your face.”

Dad stands there and looks like he wants to do it again. And again and again and again.

I lower my voice and make a promise I intend to keep. “I’ll get you. I swear on it. I don’t know when or how, but I will. When I do, it’ll hurt a million times more than any bruise or cut you’ve given me.”

“You don’t have it in you.” He finally takes a step back, shakes his head, and throws my mother a disgusted look. “Clean this shit up.”

He turns and stalks out of the dining room.

Mom falls to her chair, cradles her face in her hands, and sobs.

I grab a cloth napkin and press it to the cut under my eye. “Why do you stay with him?”

Her head pops up, and she explodes. “What do you expect me to do? Where would I go?”