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“If you call me thatone more time, Tristan–” she calls out as I head up the stairs.
I chuckle to myself. At twenty-four to her twenty-five, Tess and I are only Irish twins but as close as actual twins. Nicknames and jokes from when we were kids hit just as hard in our twenties as they did back then.
On the third floor of my parent’s five story townhouse, I call out for my mother.“Mum?”
“In here, darling,” she answers from her boudoir. I follow the clear and light sound of her voice and find her sitting at her vanity.
I lean down and kiss her softly on the cheek as her hands come up to cup my face. Her eyes search mine for a moment.
“You’ve really angered him this time, darling,” she tells me, softly.
The sleeves of her robes fall down her arms as she holds my face, revealing fading bruises on her right wrist. They’re blue, yellow, and green in color, and they look incredibly painful and tender to the touch.
Anger slams through me and steals the breath from my chest. I clasp her hands gently and lower them from my face, inspecting her bruises quietly. I try to rein in my temper before it erupts out of me and scares her. Years of living with my father have made her skittish and easily frightened.
“Did he do this to you?” My voice rumbles under the weight of my barely controlled fury, but I’m glad I’m at least able to speak.
She looks down at her wrists and nervously pulls the sleeves of her robes back down to hide the bruises.
“Oh! That’s nothing, nothing at all…”
“When?”
“Really, Tristan. I hurt myself–”
“No, Mum,” I interrupt her. “When did he do this? Was it after the party last week?” I demand, and if she says yes… I don’t know what I’ll do if I learn she had to suffer the consequences of my idiotic actions.
Nausea churns in my stomach and she must see the anguish in my eyes because she cups my face again, forcing my gaze back up to meet hers.
“No, darling. These are much older than last week.” She kisses my cheek. “You had nothing to do with these.”
I stand abruptly, needing to expend the energy that’s screaming to be let out of my body in the form of violence. Racking my hands through my hair, I turn back towards her.
“Why, mum? Why won’t you leave him, I don’t understand.”
I do understand, to some extent. She was raised to be an obedient wife and accessory to a powerful man. She was taught from her teen years that she’d live in the shadows, at best ignored but more likely repeatedly humiliated, forever at the whims of her husband.
Her parents were rich, so she’s independently wealthy, and still she can’t leave. He’s careful, my father, careful to make sure the bruises are never visible, that she’s never intoo muchpain, because she’s still a representation of him and his power.
Real influence doesn’t need to be beaten out of people, but he wouldn’t know a fucking thing about that.
I’ve never seen her bleeding, just bruised, but the thought that he might take it too far one day and kill her has crossed my mind before. The responsibility of her continued safety and wellbeing rests heavily on my heart.
“It’s not that simple, darling. He’s all I have.”
“No, you have Tess and me, mum. And we’re tired of seeing dad beat the shit out of you. Think about the example you’re setting for Tess.”
The second the words are out, I want to take them back. They sounded like I was blaming her, and that wasn’t my intention. I’d just wanted a way to get through to her, to make her understand how important, hownecessaryit is for her to leave.
She pulls her hands from my face and turns away from me, towards her vanity.
“You should go, Tristan. Your father is waiting for you.”
“Mum–”
“Please go.” She powders her nose and smiles weakly at me through the mirror. “I’ll see you at brunch next weekend.”
I stalk out of her rooms, downing my drink and setting the glass on a hallway table, before taking the steps two at a time to my father’s office on the fourth floor.
