Page 7 of Inflict

“Declan makes sure our arses stay out of prison.”

“Then you think small, too,” Sean snapped with his usual bark of irritation.

A familiar drip of cold dread slid down Connor’s spine. When Sean got angry—especially when the men were in the house—it never ended well. He sped up his steps, despite his curiosity over the conversation happening behind thin walls. He didn’t understand what they were talking about at all. Words like “organization” and “prison” were foreign to him, and he didn’t have a clue who Declan was.

He thought it might be interesting to figure out, but if Sean was already mad, Connor wasn’t about to get caught up and add to it by coming in the house looking like a dirty dog that had rolled in the mud.

His steps quickened as the entryway to the main room came into view. He dropped his head down low, shoved his hands in his pockets, and passed by without even looking inside once. He didn’t pause as he headed for the stairs, almost feeling like he might be into the safe zone.

Almost.

If there was anything Connor had learned in his short life, it was that relief was the most traitorous feeling.

“Connor!”

His muddy boot had just hit the bottom step when his father called his name with a coldness that burned from feet away. He didn’t bother to turn around right away, but his shoulders shrunk in on themselves as he listened to Sean’s footsteps come closer.

“Turn around!”

Connor did as he was told, although slowly, and he didn’t raise his gaze.

“Thinking you could sneak your dirty arse upstairs, did ye?” Sean asked.

Connor’s eyes prickled with pain from holding back the wetness wanting to fall. He knew better than to cry, so even if he hurt, he held back the tears. “Sorry.”

“Look like swine, you do,” Sean raged on, “like a wee pig. Did I raise a pig, Connor?”

“No, sir.”

“Apparently, I did. You look like a pig, you smell and act like a pig, so you must be a pig.”

Embarrassment and shame filled Connor to the brim, and he still couldn’t raise his head to look up at his father. None of the men had come out of the main room, but he knew they could hear every single word. Sean wasn’t being quiet, and the walls were terribly thin.

“I’m not a pig,” Connor whispered.

“You are—you’ll eat supper outside on the ground like a pig would, too, damn you. Get your muddy face out of my sight, lad, now.”

Connor didn’t have to be told again. He bolted for the stairs, careful not to go too fast, lest the dried mud fall from his boots and clothes and give his father more of a reason to be angry. As it was, Connor didn’t understand why all his father had done was yell at him and shame him. Sean liked his physical forms of punishment much more than verbal.

He decided it didn’t matter.

He’d clean himself up.

He’d eat outside in the mud like a pig for supper.

It was better than a beating.

Better than the belt.

Better than the hole …

• • •

Connor awoke when he was kicked from his bed. He couldn’t see straight in the dark, and he didn’t even know what had happened, except that he was lying on something much harder and colder than his bed.

He only figured out he’d been kicked out of his bed when Sean’s boot connected with Connor’s arse a second time.

“Move,” Sean said, amusement coloring up the anger in his words. “Don’t make me tell you again, lad.”