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However, my fears are confirmed when she takes a small step toward him, whispering, “Phillip?”
For the first time in my life, I see something remotely human pass over Phil’s features as he evenly replies, “Hello…little sister.”
Sister?
This is her brother?
He is my uncle?
Just when I thought my fucked-up family history couldn’t get any more messed up, this goes and happens.
“Sister?” I spit. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
My sanity has slipped, and I don’t see it returning soon.
There has got to be some mistake because this man surely cannot be blood. This man, alongside my father, used and abused me for his personal gain and had no misgivings of doing it again.
How can this be?
What have I done to deserve not one but two family members exploiting me in such a cruel and callous way?
Whatever patience I have been holding disappears, and I need to harm them both for every single thing they’ve done to me over the years.
I’m ready to kill him with my bare hands, but when I see an armed and bloodied Quinn, followed by a terrified Polly, who’s holding a Colt in her shaky hands, I realize things are about to get messy.
The next few seconds are the longest of my life, but we all act on instinct, as survival is the only thing that matters.
The moment Thomas sees Polly, he swiftly raises his gun and fires.
However, Tristan rocks his chair and slams into him, which results in Thomas being knocked off balance and the gun slipping from his hands.
As Thomas trips, his temple hits the edge of the desk, knocking him out cold, and he slumps to the floor in a messy heap. Tristan’s chair is tipped on its side, and he’s flailing around, attempting to break free from his restraints.
Cynthia screams, but all I can focus on is Thomas’s gun, which sits discarded under the desk.
I make a mad dive for it, scrambling to reach it despite the fact I hear a gun being cocked near my head. I am within inches from reaching it when a shot is fired.
I freeze for a nanosecond, and when I conclude I’m not dead, I grab the gun and turn, pointing it out in front of me.
“You little fuck, you shot me!” Phil yells, clutching the front of his shoulder as he drops to the ground with a thud.
I turn to look at Quinn, who’s holding the smoking gun.
“Oh boo-fucking-hoo,” he spits out, rushing to my side as I attempt to stand on my unsteady legs.
“Are you okay?” I sob, throwing myself into Quinn’s arms and forgetting about my shakiness when I see his swollen eye and blood trickling from his ear.
“I’m fine,” he breathlessly replies, crushing me against his chest and placing frantic kisses all over my temple and cheeks. His hands skim down my body, ensuring I’m not hurt.
“Looks like we got the wrong guy,” Phil sarcastically says. “Or perhaps you would be far more useful spreading your legs, then?”
“Shut up!” I scream, tearing from Quinn’s embrace and storming over to a snickering Phil, who has propped himself up against the wall, clutching his left shoulder.
“Looks like you’d make more money being a whore.”
My body trembles in rage, and I stop inches from his feet, aiming the gun at his face.
“Go ahead and do it.” He shrugs with a chuckle. “Your little redhead friend’s life depends on it.”
