Page 17 of Inflict

Or the smell of the smoke.

Maybe even the hammer still hanging from his father’s hand.

Truth was, Connor couldn’t blame any of those things.

What made him feel so sick—in his gut, heart, and head—was the soft cries of several cats, meowing he recognized, coming from somewhere inside the bathroom behind his father.

Was he going to make Connor watch him kill the cats?

Was that his plan, now?

It wouldn’t be the first time his father had done something of the sort, but that didn’t mean it would be easy, or that he wanted to.

“Went looking for you around lunch—thought you might be hungry,” Sean said. “Called for you for minutes, then I followed your tracks. How long have the wee bastards been living under the shed out there?”

Connor chose not to lie. “Since autumn.”

“All three of ‘em, huh?”

He kept his mouth shut on that one.

No need to say there had been another his father didn’t know about.

Sean sucked on his teeth, his gaze blank but sharp, making Connor want to look away. He didn’t, it wouldn’t do well for him if he had. “You know how I feel about animals, Connor.”

Surprised to be called by his name instead of the usual “lad” or “bastard” his father almost always used, Connor was taken off guard. “I know, but—”

“But what?”

“They were outside, I just found them one day.”

Sean made a disgusted noise under his breath. “Disgusting things—crawling through everything, carrying sickness, and they’re all nothing more than flea-bitten creatures.”

Connor didn’t argue, but only because it wouldn’t help to. Not because he agreed with his father.

“All’s well that ends well, I suppose,” Sean finally said, raising his hand that held the hammer. “And on that note, you can be the one to finish them, since you were also the one who allowed them, when you knew better.”

Connor blinked, unsure and cold in his heart. “What?”

Sean wiggled the hammer, holding it closer to his son. “Take it, and finish it.”

No.

The horror of what his father was telling him to do must have been written as clear as day on Connor’s face, because with a hearty laugh, Sean shoved the hammer into his son’s hand. Then, before Connor could even refuse or step out of his father’s reach, he found himself grabbed by the back of his neck, the collar of his shirt choking him as he was shoved roughly into the bathroom, making him trip over his own two feet.

“But—”

Sean blocked the bathroom doorway as Connor turned around to bolt. “You’re not going anywhere ‘til the red runs down the drain, lad.”

Connor’s mouth went dry. “I can’t …”

“You can. We all can.” Sean rubbed at his cheek, drawing Connor’s attention to the rows of scratches just beneath his father’s five o’clock shadow. “Hurry—I’m feckin’ knackered, I’ve dealt with enough from one eejit in this house, today. I’m not about to deal with another. I’m sure you’ll make a good mess, as I want you to. Maybe that bitch downstairs will have to clean for long enough that her hands will be too sore to raise the next time I tell her to stay down like the whore she is.”

Connor didn’t move, only stared at his father, trying to get his six-year-old mind to catch up to speed with what he was being told, and what he was expected to do.

It didn’t help.

It certainly didn’t work.