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Boyd
There’s still blood on my cracked knuckles when Fiona finally drifts off to sleep, her breathing evening out for the first time since I started paying attention at the gala.
It’s one of those things you don’t really notice until it’s suddenly missing from your life; as her body goes limp beside me, her chest seems to deflate slowly, as if expelling all the worry she keeps pinned there so she can rest. I keep waiting for the pre-hyperventilation, holding my own breath just to see if hers still comes out rushed and panicked.
Holding my finger beneath her nose to make sure she’s at least still alive, I make a mental note to research anxiety and control issues, then slip from the bed and pad to the bathroom across the hall to avoid waking her up. Flipping on the light, I wince at the brightness, and then again at my reflection.
My eye is swollen, the surrounding skin bruised and mangled. There’s a tear at the corner where the candlestick LeeAnn swung at my face broke through, sending a flare of rage through my chest all over again.
I curl my battered hands into fists on top of the counter, then turn on the sink faucet and cup them beneath its spray. The sting somehow dampens the anger, stealing it from my body as I pump soap into my palm.
Drying my hands on the red decorative towel, I pull my phone out as it buzzes against my thigh for the billionth time, Riley’s name flashing across the screen. I drag a hand through my hair, not in the fucking mood, but answer the call anyway.
“What the heck happened tonight?” her whisper-shout greets me, sawing at the thread of sanity barely holding me together.
What happened was LeeAnn fucking around with big-time drug dealers like Romeo Bianchi, who’d been in the trailer when I’d shown up tonight, concerned that I hadn’t heard from her in a few days. As soon as my foot crossed the threshold, my eyes finding Romeo’s as he sat fastening a rubber tourniquet around LeeAnn’s bicep, I regretted being so goddamn soft for the woman.
Soft for someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Will never return the favor.
I hadn’t been expecting her to attack—she hasn’t laid a hand on me since I outgrew her, which is why she got such a good hit on me, catching me off guard as she swung, letting Romeo escape.
When I shoved her back and fled the trailer, yelling at Riley to lock her bedroom door and not leave until the morning, I’d been hellbent on tracking the elder Bianchi son down and tearing his intestines out through his asshole, but a reminder on my phone about Craig’s birthday dinner popped up, drawing me from the haze of fury clouding my judgment.
My plan was to come and get lost in the general din of Ivers company—for a family with such dark roots, they’re so painstakingly normal around each other that it’s easy to pretend I’m a part of their little tribe.
Craig certainly considers me part of it, though I’m not sure what he’d say if he knew about the recurring thoughts I have about his daughter. How badly I want to strip her bare and ride her raw, how I want to steal her soul and make it mine.
The thoughts consume me at random; I’ll be sitting in my office at work and her petite, freckled face will pop up, sudden and all-encompassing in its presence.
When I got to the mansion, abandoning my thoughts of revenge, I knocked on the door for a good fifteen minutes before picking the lock and letting myself inside, not seeing Craig’s Aston Martin in the driveway and assuming he’d already taken off.
No one was supposed to be home. Certainly not Fiona.
Soft music and sniffles drifted quietly from upstairs, though, and like a moth to a flame, I’d followed their sound.
As soon as I saw her puffy eyes and stepped into the room, I was stuck. Glued in place when I sat on her bed, unable to leave even though my brain screamed at me that I should. That she’s my best friend’s sister, my boss’s daughter, and so young and seemingly innocent.
But it’s that forced goodness that draws me in, despite whatever it is she’s hiding. I can’t seem to drag myself away, the desire to steal some for my own soul too tempting to refuse.
Now, I sit down on the closed toilet and squeeze the phone against my ear, Riley’s voice calling out and pulling me from my thoughts.
“What happened tonight doesn’t matter. Are you still in your room?” I ask, running a hand through my hair and glaring down at the shiny tiled floor.
“Yeah, but I’m kind of freaked out. Mom left an hour ago and I haven’t been able to get a hold of her.”
I scoff. “That’s not surprising. She’ll turn up, though, don’t worry. Can’t harass me if she’s not around.”
She stays quiet for a moment, and there’s some kind of shuffling over the line. It sounds like blankets, and I hope she’s getting into bed rather than out. “Did... did she hit you?”
“Again, doesn’t matter.”
“That’s guy for yes, you know.”
Gritting my teeth, I can feel my patience waning, violence pumping through my blood at the mere mention of LeeAnn putting her hands on me again. At myself, for letting it happen—for ever thinking it was over.
The first time you let someone take a punch at you, it sets the precedent for how badly you’ll let them treat you. And I’ve been letting that bitch abuse me my entire life, apparently incapable of making it stop or keeping away.
