Page 65 of Twisted Tate

I want to focus on the joy of knowing that I’m going to marry the man I love. But this isn’t finished, and I need this to be done first.

“Now.” I turn back to my father. “The truth.”

“What truth? I signed your goddamn contract.” He’s trying to muster some of his old arrogance, but it comes out pathetic. “What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to admit what you did.” I press the knife against his other shoulder. “All of it. Every disgusting thing you’ve ever done to me.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about. You aren’t remembering right.”

I cut him. A shallow slice across his chest, just deep enough to hurt.

“Try again.”

“Jesus Christ!” He’s thrashing against the restraints now. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Fine. I’m sorry. Is that what you need to hear?”

“I don’t need your goddamn apology.” I make another cut, parallel to the first. “I need your confession.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

I make another cut. This one is deeper, across his stomach. He screams again, and the sound fills the warehouse.

“Admit it.” My voice breaks. “Admit what you did to me. All of it.”

“I don’t know what you want!”

“Yes, you do.” I press the knife against his throat, just below his jaw. “You know exactly what I want you to say. The thing you’ve never admitted to anyone. The thing you’ve been hiding for all these fucking years because you know it makes you sick and disgusting.”

His eyes go wide. He knows what I’m asking.

“Reese.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Please. That was—”

“Say it.” Tears are streaming down my face now, but I don’t wipe them away. “Tell everyone in this room what you did to me before you ever sold me to anyone else.”

The silence stretches. I can feel Tate behind me and the tension radiating off him. He doesn’t know. None of them know. This is the secret I’ve been carrying since I was fourteen years old, the one I’ve never spoken out loud.

I shouldn’t have to say the words. He should and live the shame of his admission.

My father’s face crumples. All the arrogance, all the defiance, all the cruelty—it all falls away, leaving nothing but a pathetic old man who knows he’s about to die.

“I was drunk.” His voice is barely audible. “Your mother had just died. I was grieving. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to rape your own daughter?” The words tear out of me as I fight a sob. “You didn’t mean to come into my room when I was fourteen years old and take everything from me?”

Tate grips my hips behind me and just having him near makes me calmer. I hear Ivy’s sharp intake of breath. I can’t look at any of them. All I can do is stare at the monster in front of me and wait for him to finally tell the truth.

“You were so much like her.” My father’s voice is hollow now, defeated. “Your mother. You looked just like her, and I was lonely, and I’d been drinking, and I—”

“Say. It.”

“I raped you.” The words come out in a rush, like he’s been holding them back for years. “Is that what you want to hear? I raped my own daughter.”

I wait for some kind of relief. Some weight lifting off my chest, some sense of closure. Instead, all I feel is the truth I’ve always known, finally spoken out loud.

My father didn’t just sell me. He broke me first. He made sure I was already damaged goods before he ever put a price on me. He shattered my very existence.

“That’s all I needed.” I lower the knife and step back.

Tate is there immediately. His arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me against his chest. I can feel the rage vibrating through him, the barely controlled violence in every muscle.