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"What?"
Her smile is twisted, and I see anger in her eyes. Anger and a wealth of pain.
"Why you are pretending," she emphasizes that word, "as if you didn't see me dangling from the roof by wrists, my blood on the ground?"
My whole world goes quiet at her words as she stares at me.
She watches me, and a small bitter smile plays on her lips. "Children remember trauma. Most do. I remember every whipping I received at your father's hands from the day I entered your house. But do you know what I remember even more clearly, Adam? I remember a tall dark-haired boy climbing down the basement steps. I recall him staring at me. I recall begging him to help me, to let me down. And then," her voice is soft as a whisper, "I remember him walking away. I remember being beaten so hard that night that I ripped out a chunk of my hair as I rocked back and forth over the next two days. I remember trying to hold my breath so I could stop breathing because nobody would help me. You saw me, and you walked away."
It's like a long-buried memory has suddenly resurged.
I had been looking for my father that day, and the basement door, which was always closed, stood open. I had called out for him as I walked downstairs. But just a few steps down, I had smelled the metallic scent of blood. When I saw the little girlhanging from the roof, crying for help, crying and screaming, I felt numb.
I stared at her for what felt like an eternity. And then, I had run away, horrified.
I don't remember what happened after that. I don't know why I buried that memory so deep inside my brain, why I never remembered it until Cynthia described the scene to me.
I press my foot against the brake pedal so hard we both jerk forward. My hand instantly flies out to shield Cynthia from hitting the windshield.
I stare ahead, unable to utter a word. It's like a strange fog has been lifted from my head. For some reason, aside from my dislike for my family, my memories of my childhood home are dim, almost as if something inside me has been preventing me from recalling.
"I left you," I utter the words, shame, and guilt forming a hard knot in my chest.
Cynthia gazes at me. "I was tortured in your home. While you slept in your warm beds, your stomachs full, the child your father brought home screamed herself hoarse. She was fed once a day, if even that. She knew no love, no affection. She was taught pain. She was taught suffering."
My wolf is whimpering, wanting to comfort her, but my hands… I don't want to touch her with my hands. I don't deserve to touch her when I failed her all those years ago.
"Cynthia," I say her name hoarsely.
"Sometimes I forget you turned your back on me. I've suffered so much, what's one more hurt? But when you say we're fated mates, it hurts even more knowing my own mate turned his back on me when I was pleading for help."
"There's nothing I can say," I whisper, my guilt stabbing me with each word that comes out of her mouth. "I didn't remember. The scene must have shocked me so much that the memory just… That's what you meant at the infirmary then."
She studies me and when I look at her, her face looks more flushed than normal. Probably because she's upset.
"How long?"
How long has my father been torturing you?I want to ask, but the full sentence can’t seem to form on my lips.
"Since the day I got there."
"Why?"
She opens her mouth and then her eyes flutter shut, her jaw strained. "I can't say. I can't say anything."
I recall Norman's words, and a hollow sensation strikes my chest. "Did he… Did my father buy you from your family? Did he bring you into our home as a slave?"
Cynthia leans back in her seat, using her blouse to fan her face. "No. No, not that. I…"
She lets out a shuddering breath, and it hits me what this thick scent in the car is. I didn't notice it before, but it's making me a little light-headed.
"Cynthia," I touch her face, and she's burning.
A whine escapes her lips at my touch and worry fills me. "Cynthia, what did you take?"
"What?" Her voice sounds husky, a little breathy. "Nothing."
"You took something," I say urgently, pressing my fingers against her pulse. It's too fast. The car is filled with the smell of her arousal, and it's making my wolf agitated. My cock is hardening. This is not the right time for her to go into heat.
