Page 50 of Claimed Through Deception

"What is that?" Gia asks, reaching out.

"Don't touch it," Livia warns, her voice suddenly dropping its monotone compliance. She pulls the frame tighter against her ribs.

"Let me see it," Gia demands.

She lunges forward. Her hand shoots out, her painted nails digging into Livia’s wrist. Livia gasps, twisting to protect the frame, but Gia is bigger and fueled by a spiteful, ugly rage. She yanks Livia’s arm, while her other hand snatches the wooden frame from Livia’s grip.

Livia stumbles forward, catching herself against the wall. "Give it back!"

Gia steps back, holding the frame up.

I watch from the shadows, the muscles in my back locking into hard stone.

It is a faded, crumpled photograph. The colors are washed out. It shows a younger version of Livia, maybe eight or nine years old, standing next to a woman with tired eyes and a sad, fragile smile.

Her mother.

It is the only piece of her possession she owns that doesn't belong to me.

"Pathetic," Gia mocks, inspecting the cheap wood and the faded photo. "Is this the punching bag? Is this the woman who let a drunk beat her to death?"

"Shut your mouth," Livia breathes.

"Look at her," Gia laughs harshly. "She looks weak. She looks exactly like you. A worthless, little rat."

"I said give it back!" Livia shouts. She lunges for the photo.

Gia sidesteps. She holds the frame out over the hard, polished tiles of the corridor.

She looks Livia dead in the eye, a twisted satisfaction lighting up her face.

And she opens her fingers.

The wooden frame drops.

It hits the floor with a sharp, explosive crack. The cheap glass shatters instantly, sending jagged, transparent shards skittering across the tiles. The wooden backing splinters, the faded photograph slipping out and landing face-down in the mess of broken glass.

Livia freezes.

She doesn't scream. She doesn't attack Gia.

She just breaks.

I watch the fight drain completely out of her body. Her shoulders collapse. She drops to her knees right there in the middle of the hallway, uncaring about the sharp shards of glass scattered across the floor.

Her hands hover over the shattered frame. She reaches out, her fingers trembling violently, and picks up the crumpled, faded photograph of her dead mother.

A choked, ragged sob tears its way out of her throat. It is a sound of bottled up rage.

She pulls the photo to her chest, bowing her head as the tears finally spill over her lashes. She isn't the defiant survivor anymore. She is the broken little girl watching her world get destroyed, unable to stop it.

"Oops," Gia says, her tone mockingly light. "Looks like you have another mess to clean up, Livia."

A cold, homicidal blankness washes over my brain. The world tunnels into a singular focus. The sound of Livia’s ragged weeping is the only thing that exists, and the woman standing over her is the target.

I step out of the shadows.

My boots hit the tiles with a purposeful thud.