Page 13 of The Price Of Possession

“You want me to relax?” I jolt up from the bed, naked, uncaring if he sees it all. Clearly he already did. “You fucking pierced my clit. I'm sore! Why would you do that!?” I shout like a lunatic.

He shrugs. Fucking shrugs. He takes another hit. He extends his hand out offering me some.

I slam my eyes closed to regain some clarity and hopefully not pop off. My hands massage my temples. “You pierced me. For zero reason at all?” I repeat. He laughs. Laughs. His green eyes flash me something dark and sinister, yet arrogant.

“This is insane. You are insane.” I wag a finger. “You belong in a damn prison or something. You're sick!”

He looks unfazed. He must be used to hateful words. If this is how he treats all his conquests it baffles me why they'd keep crawling back into the arms of such a sadistic fuck.

“Want a hit?” he asks casually. His voice doesn't show a hint of remorse.

I start plucking my discarded clothes from the bedroom floor, hobbling into them. “No! What I want is to be far the fuck away from you! You fucking freak!” I spew. I'm not usually so hateful, but the words fall from my lips like vomit. I'm angry with myself. Angry I allowed him to fuck me again. Angry that I'm sore. Angry that he pierced me like he has some claim over my body.

“Asshole,” I hiss, flipping him off. I dress quickly. He stays plastered to the dresser, watching me with fascination. He wears that smug smile I want to smack off his face. “Stay away from me. I mean it,” I warn. He still doesn't say a word. I make my way toward the door. I slip my heels on and exit through the door, slamming it closed behind me.

Fuck!

The impulses won again. It was too tempting not to destroy her. I knew she'd be pissed. I love her fire. Fuck! I can't help myself. When she cries. When she's mad.

When she's powerless.

I slam my fist through the drywall.

Just. Like. Him. Those words echo through my mind like a broken record.

My shitbag father.

My phone buzzes on the floor. I snatch it just to find Mortensen calling. Speaking of the useless shitbag of a father. I grind my molars. I wish I could ignore him entirely.

Being his only son, I don't get the luxury of cutting him from my life. At least, not yet. After graduation I'm done with this shit. I want nothing to do with his crap anymore. Not after what he made me do. I used to want to prove myself, but now I want nothing more than to burn down his empire until it's nothing but ash.

I answer the phone with my usual aggressive tone because, fuck him. “What?” He grumbles on the other end. “Come home. I need to speak with you.”

My brows shoot up. I park my ass on the edge of the bed, staring mindlessly at the satin sheets. My hands run over the fabric. They're still warm from Clara. They smell just like her. Some rose scented shit. Fuck, how I want to steal her and use her as my fuck slave. Using her to fix my fucked up shit sounds like a Goddamn dream.

“Kieran!” He shouts through the phone. My hands thread through my tight curls. “Fine, not staying long. I got shit to take care of.”

I can't keep putting off this Clara shit. Instead of warning her and protecting her, I fucked her senseless and make her hate me.

He scoffs. “Fucking, getting high and drowning in the bottle isn't priority, Kieran.”

“Whose fault is that?” I flout. My tone could cut steel. I slip back on my boots, not bothering to lace them.

He hangs up on me before I make another witty remark.

***

I slam the door closed to my Bugatti La Voiture Noire. All the money in the world can't erase how fucked Mortensen is. My boots slam along the gravel drive. Each step sparks anger and resentment inside me. I should’ve taken something to take the edge off. Rina, the family housekeeper, opens the double doors. I don't acknowledge her, per usual; I shoulder past her through the foyer. My boots echo loudly against the floor. “He’s in his office,” she relays meekly. I don't say shit. I push the opulent carved mahogany doors open, Aragorn style. Mortensen is seated in his leather armchair behind his cherrywood desk. His sandy blond hair is loose over his face instead of oiled back. He doesn't bother looking up.

“Sit,” he commands. I widen my stance and cross my arms. “Nah, think I’ll stand,” I gravel out.

His eyes shoot up from his ledgers. They hold a visceral carnage. A shared hatred we both harbor. “Sit in the damn seat, Kieran!” he spits, losing patience. He turns red faced as his chair scrapes along the hardwood floor. He stands tall, ready to take aim with his words.

Do your worst, Father. I smirk, remaining defiant.

He clenches his fists. “Fine, I'll get right to it. Did you kill that boy?” His eyes burn into my skin like acid.

I tsk, avoiding his question. “Who? Jax?” I play dumb. He steps out from behind his desk, his hands neatly folded behind him. He's turned on interrogation mode.