Page 67 of Moonlit Thorns

“I’m usually a little out of sorts the day after, but I’m used to it by now.”

I hesitate for a moment before I ask my next question. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to share, but I also want him to know that he can open up if he feels the need to.

“What was your dream about? It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it,” I quickly add.

The pain returns to his eyes and regret slashes me. But to my surprise, he speaks. “When I was growing up, my father used to beat me for anything he thought was a transgression—big or small. Sometimes my mother would try to stop him, and he’d hurt her. I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I dreamed one of those times she tried to step in to protect me.” He frowns.

“Asher, I’m so sorry.” I trail my fingers down his face.

He turns his head and kisses the inside of my hand. “There’s no reason for you to be sorry. It’s my father who was the massive prick.”

“Still, I can’t imagine what that’s like—to watch your mother be hurt like that…”

He looks over my head, and his eyes become haunted, almost as though he’s reliving it all over again. “After this one particular time when I was ten, I made her promise not to try to intervene anymore. She wasn’t having any of it, but I told her it hurt me more to watch my father beat her than it did to feel his fists against my face. I remember she wept that day and wouldn’t stop.”

The pain and anger in my chest feel near impossible to control. If his father were still alive today, I’d want to take my fists to his face. “That’s terrible that you felt like you had to protect her. No child should feel that way.”

He gives a sad sort of chuckle. “I tried to protect everyone—my mom, my brothers, myself. For all the good it did.”

“Did your brothers suffer the same fate you did?”

His gaze meets mine again. “Those stories are for my brothers to tell, not me.”

I nod in understanding.

What kind of man beats his wife and four children? A sociopath, that’s who.

“I don’t know what to say, Asher. I’m sorry you had to endure that.”

He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“Didn’t anyone try to step in? Surely other people must’ve known.”

Asher threads his fingers into the hair at the side of my head. “You grew up with money, Anabelle, but you didn’t grow up with the kind of money my family has. The kind of influence and power to ruin generations of a family. People who worked on the estate knew, but they would never say anything. The only ones who did are the ones who are still employed here from back then—Marcel and Mr. and Mrs. Potter.”

That makes sense, I realize. They always seem to look at Asher through eyes more akin to a parental figure, rather than an employee.

“Once, when I was probably around eleven or twelve, my dad beat me so badly that both my eyes swelled shut. In the week it took for the swelling to come down enough that I could see again, my mom read me books by my bedside all day to keep me from getting bored, and Mrs. Potter made me homemade ice cream every day.”

I don’t bother asking why his mother didn’t take her children and leave. She was a victim too. Leaving any man when you’re in a situation like that is difficult, but leaving a man with the wealth and power of Asher’s father? It must have seemed insurmountable.

A tear slips down my face as I picture a young Asher with a bruised face, relegated to staying in bed to heal rather than running around and exploring the massive estate as any child should.

“Hey, why are you crying?” Asher’s voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. He swipes away the lone tear with the pad of his thumb.

“I just can’t imagine growing up like that. Always afraid of the man who’s supposed to love you. I was so close to my father. I just… I feel bad that you never got to know that feeling.”

He gives me a sad sort of smile. “I’m glad you had that at least, even if you lost it too soon.”

I nod, trying to push away all thoughts of my dad because I can’t handle anything more right now.

“What about your mom? Are you close with her?” he asks.

My chest tightens. “I was close with her too.”

Asher frowns. “Was?”

“Since my dad died, she’s been… depressed. Hardly speaks or eats, and rarely gets out of bed. Physically she’s still here, but it’s like I’ve lost her too.”

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