Before he can finish the sentence, the hand that had no role in my branding lashes out, striking him across the face once. He falls back on his ass, shocked, and it takes a second for it to set in what just happened.
Somewhere in the house, Daddy’s grandfather clock chimes. Footsteps carry through the halls, though I’m sure no one else is here.
As Preston scrambles back up, my hand whips out again, this time turning so the broken paintbrush wrapped in my palm slices across his cheek.
I’ve never been so happy to keep it tucked inside my dress.
Blood beads in the wound, and he lets out a cry as I jump up, hauling my foot back to drive my heel into his groin.
“Fuck,” he groans, doubling over with his arm over his lap. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
With a grin, I grab the iron and ignore my body’s aches. “You’ll have to catch me first, fucker.”
And then the lights go out.
42
My brothers and I learned the layout of our house as soon as we moved to Aplana. Navigating in the dark was a necessity for the three of us, albeit for different reasons.
It feels strange for me to be tiptoeing around now when the end goal isn’t just to stuff my face with junk food.
This is life or death, and I never would’ve imagined that skill would come in handy, but here we are.
Or, here I am, anyway. Sliding my palms along the walls and using muscle memory to keep me from tripping up.
I don’t know what happened to the power, but I’m not staying still so I can find out, either. I’ve discarded my heels, tucked my paintbrush back into my dress, and hold the iron against my leg as I walk, on high alert.
Preston’s footsteps don’t come for a long time, and even when they do, they echo through the corridors, announcing his presence. Though for some reason, he never leaves the immediate downstairs, occasionally coming over to the main staircase to stand silently, but then he always retreats back to the living room.
Almost as if he’s waiting me out.
Unfortunately for him, I will not be returning downstairs. If I can hide somewhere, I know Jonas will make it to me before anything else can happen.
Which makes the burn mark on my chest feel very stupid, but whatever.
It’ll heal.
Probably.
And if not? Well, at least there can be no denying my feelings for Jonas Wolfe anymore.
Still, the brand hurts, so I move as silently as possible to a half bathroom in the very back of the west wing of the mansion. Pushing the door open slowly, I crouch down and pry open the sink cabinet, digging around for antibacterial ointment or a bandage.
I find a little packet of something, but since it’s practically pitch black in here, I can’t confirm the contents. Tearing the paper open, I lift and smell, trying my best to detect scents present in a cream that would make the burn worse.
The ointment has a neutral scent, though, so I squeeze a generous amount onto my fingers and gingerly press them to the site. My body locks up, rejecting the contact, even as the cream seems to soothe the inflammation.
Measuring the size of the bandage against my palm, I open it up and fit the gauze against the half dollar-sized mark, breathing a small sigh of relief when it’s over.
Getting to my feet, I exit the bathroom, holding my breath as I plaster myself to the wall. No footsteps can be heard, so I start around the corner and head for my old room.
My hand grips the doorknob just as someone shoves a hand into my hair, yanking me back with a startled squeak.
There’s a single, split second where I think Jonas has finally found me.
That I’m saved.
But it’s Daddy’s voice that comes.
His hand that slaps down over my mouth as he shoves me into the door.
“Did you really think it’d be that easy, Helene? That you could ever just walk away from your duties to this family, and not have severe consequences?”
When I don’t answer—hello, can’t answer—he cracks my skull against the wood. My vision darkens at the corners, bright speckles of light flashing behind my eyelids.
“You’ll go back downstairs, and you’ll finish what you started with Preston and his friends. You’ll let them fuck you until you bleed, or get pregnant, or whatever the hell it is they want to do to you, and then you’ll be returning to the compound as soon as they’re done. Got it?”
Sliding his hand away, he shakes me a little. “Do you fucking understand, Lenny? All this time you thought your role was to be my little helper. The face of Primrose Realty.” He laughs, and the sound makes me physically ill. “I was just priming you to see how much you’d be able to take. See what you’d tell people. Turns out, your mother and I raised you better than we realized.”
My eyes burn, tears threatening to spill over as his disgusting words assault me. The fractures in my heart seem to split, shattering until there are a million little pieces—so many pieces, that I fear it can never be put back together.
“Why?” I whisper, my voice utterly broken.
Reality is supposed to be what you make of it, but I don’t remember asking for this.
“Because they’re willing to pay, baby girl. And our world revolves around the almighty dollar. You just don’t know it yet, because I’ve been protecting you all this time. But it’s time I fed you to the wolves, otherwise you’re never going to learn your lesson.”
Well. There’s my confirmation.
Preston wasn’t lying.
Violence thrums through my veins, and my body practically hums along with it. My brain lags and my heart is out of the question, so I focus on what my gut is saying.
The easy thing to do would be to try and endure. To hold off until Jonas and my maybe cavalry arrive, but who knows what shape I’ll be in at that point?
Easier is not always better.
I struggle against him, trying to get my hand up enough to knock him loose with the iron, but then he’s reaching for my throat and crushing my windpipe.
“Stop being such a pissy little brat,” he snarls, nails cutting into my skin.
Then, he shifts, freeing one of my arms, seemingly unbeknownst to him. It slides up my chest, snatching the brush hidden in my cleavage.
Curling my fingers around the handle, I suck in a deep breath, ground my feet into the floor, and hope that one day I’m able to come to terms with my decision.
Relying on pure adrenaline and instinct, I rear my arm up around my head and drive the handle into the side of his throat. A brief pause ensues, and I feel him reach up to clutch the wound, but then I pull it out and repeat the motion, adding even more force behind it.
Then I do it again.
And again.
And again.
Until finally, his hand falls away from my throat, and I hear his body hit the floor.
I stand still for several minutes after, staring at the door even as my father’s blood drips down my scalp, trailing a path along my spine. Over my shoulders. It clings to me, along with the lead weight of his threats—followed quickly by the ghost of promises made when I was younger.
That he’d never hurt me.
That he wanted me to be happy.
The paintbrush falls from my hand, and I lean against the door. I want to sink into it, to become one with the wood so maybe everything would hurt a little less.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, but the voice that breaks through the darkness coaxes the first of many tears from my exhausted, dirty body. Like lightning striking a storm cloud, igniting everything it touches.