Page 51

When I meet Mark’s gaze, I find a disgusted glare that catches me off guard. He quickly schools his features, turning to Declan with forced casualness, but it’s too late. I saw it. Felt it.

Vitriol. Judgment. Hatred.

A foot taps mine under the table, and I blink at Paige, who offers me an apologetic smile before looking away. Sheila’s expression mirrors her daughter’s as she gazes at Shilo, who’s now poking at his plate with his head down.

Reaching under the table, I place a hand on his knee. The moment our skin touches, he flinches, pulling away sharply.

“I’m full,” he announces, standing abruptly.

Mark waves him off without a glance, already deep in a discussion about politics with my brother. Once Shilo leaves the room, he takes the warmth with him, my body growing cold in his absence. I watch him quickly climb the stairs two at a time like he can’t get away fast enough, and it’s hard not to follow after him. The last thing I want to do here is make things difficult between him and his father, even if my instincts are screaming at me to throw him over my shoulder and carry him out like a caveman.

After finishing my meal in silence, I collect both mine and Shilo’s plates. “Where’s the kitchen? I’ll clear these away.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Sheila takes them from me, patting my arm softly. “I’ve got these. And thank you for the wine. It was delicious.”

“No problem at all, you can keep the rest.”

Taking a step forward, I’m about to excuse myself for a breather when she grabs my wrist.

“Oh! Shilo must have dropped his phone when he hightailed it out of here. Can you take it to him?”

Frowning down at my empty hand, the ‘phone’ clearly imaginary, I flick my gaze back up to hers as she winks.

“Up the stairs, third door on the left. Thank you, dear.”

Well…alright, then.

Mark doesn’t acknowledge me as I leave, and while I’ve grown used to bigoted assholes, his disdain stings—not for me, but for Shilo. I’ve been out for years, faced slurs and hostility in locker rooms and boardrooms alike. It barely fazes me. But my little doll doesn’t have armor like I do.

The hallway upstairs is dark, save for the faint glow under one door. I raise a hand to knock, but the sound of retching freezes me in place. It’s a sound I’ve heard him make before, and anger surges through me. Without thinking, I push the door open.

His room is bigger than I expected, cluttered but cozy. A shelf of plants lines the window, and a curved computer monitor sits on a desk. But my focus is on the bathroom, where I find Shilo kneeling in front of the toilet with two fingers shoved down his throat.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Yelping in surprise, he whips around, falling sideways against the tub. “What are you doing in my room?!”

His knees draw up to his chest as I tower over him, my eyes darting to the toilet. He hasn’t succeeded in purging yet.

“It’s n-not what you think,” he stammers, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Oh? So you weren’t about to throw up everything you just ate for dinner?”

He opens his mouth, probably to deny it, but my vibrating anger silences him. His forehead lowers to his knees, thin shoulders shaking with sobs.

Suddenly, in this moment, he looks even smaller than he did two weeks ago. Like my little doll is wasting away before my eyes.

How can I even call him my anything if I’m allowing this to happen?

“Just…please, just go, Mr. Callahan.”

Christ, even his voice sounds frail.

I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been the comforting type, viewing insecurities and uncertainty as weaknesses. I had to grow thick skin if I was going to survive my father. But despite my abrasive attitude, I’m not cruel. I can’t leave him like this.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I take a deep breath and drop to the floor, leaning my back against the wall.

“I saw the school pictures downstairs. And your sister mentioned bullies. Is this the reason?”