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The destruction.
The mess.
The filth.
This is how he’s living?
Good.
He doesn’t deserve to live in a nice place, a safe place. He deserves to live in a shithole, a place where he’s drowning in his lack of control.
Stepping forward, my gaze shifts and lands on the stairs that lead to his bedroom. He’s asleep. He has no idea I’m here.
I could go up there and do whatever I wanted, whatever I needed to give Roman the peace he desperately deserves.
But I don’t move. I can’t.
My eyes stay glued to the spot where my mother died. Where she was murdered.
Emotion burns the back of my nose, but I sniff it away, refusing to let myself spiral. But then I glance at the bookshelf in front of the basement door and my heart sinks. Knowing what’s behind it, what trauma that room holds, has my blood turning to ice.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t tear my eyes away.
How could he do that? Roman was just a little boy. A baby.
And Isaac was a grown man.
Coward.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
A scream flies from me and I whirl toward the dark kitchen, my hand pressed to the center of my chest. My heart thunders beneath, my eyes wide as I search for him.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, finding him sitting at the kitchen table. His profile is stark in the darkness, the faintest hint of the bruised sky spilling in from the kitchen window highlighting his features.
“Is that any way to greet your Lord?” he murmurs, his voice slurred. My mouth goes dry at his words, at his tone. “Finally crawling back home to me?”
Gripping a bottle by the neck, he tips his head back, his throat bobbing as he swallows mouthful after mouthful of dark liquid. He slams it back on the table, the sound reverberating throughout the house and making me jolt.
Suddenly, he shoves his chair back. It scrapes along the floor and goosebumps ripple across my arms. My mouth goes dry as he stumbles forward a step, and as he slowly approaches, a fleeting thought crosses my mind.
Maybe I should’ve listened to Roman.
“Where have you been, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice low as he closes the too-short distance between us. “Slumming it with my son?”
“Don’t bring him up,” I snarl, my lip curling back as I glare up at him. His brow lifts, and if I were a smarter person, maybe I’d back down. But I don’t.
Roman is my line.
I’ll kill for him.
I’ll die for him.
Isaac takes another step forward, crowding me, and I smell the alcohol wafting off his breath. Dark bags sit under his eyes, long stubble coats his jaw, and despite the early hours of the morning when most people are asleep, he’s still in his button down and pants. They’re wrinkled, like he’s been sitting at that exact spot for hours.
An unhinged gleam shines in his eye, and, swallowing thickly, I take a step back as fear courses through my body. But then my gaze shifts to the spot on the floor where my mother died. Then over to the bookshelf that hides the truth of the secrets this house holds, and all bets are off.
Tipping my head back, I glare up at my stepfather.
