Page 4 of Brutal Mate

All she had done was put things in their proper place—the smallest nail, screw or nut to the biggest, one product per shelf, as it should have been—not all jumbled up as her father had left it, as if he'd just thrown packets at the shelf and prayed for the best.

“What do you know about hardware?” her father bellowed like an enraged bull. “I should have known better than to leave a woman in charge of a man's store. If only you'd been a son! I'd know this place was in safe hands.”

Miley scoffed under her breath. As if her father believed that having a set of balls between her legs might have made her any better at taking over when he was gone. She'd never have been so lucky anyway. He was going to live forever, torturing her just as long. He'd never let his favorite punching bag leave just because she was all grown up.

“I'm sure she only meant to help,” her mother said meekly. But at a glare from her father, she fell silent, her head dipped as low as Miley's.

“Maybe if you'd given me a son instead of this useless excuse for a daughter, we wouldn't be having this conversation, and we wouldn't be in the mess we're in.”

Miley's throat constricted. Her father sounded as if he were some king, his precious hardware store a grand kingdom in need of an heir. It was laughable, especially after all the books she had read. Her father was no king. He wasn't even a man. And yet, she couldn't find a way to be free of him, no matter how she might have tried in the past.

She didn't dare to speak. She barely even dared to breathe, knowing all too well what came next.

“Put it all back unless you want the belt again!”

Miley's buttocks and back stung at the words. She had barely healed from the last time he'd taken the leather belt to her for something as stupid as burning his bacon.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, sick to her stomach. She hated calling him that. She wasn't a little girl anymore, and she hadn't seen him as "Daddy" in a very long time. She hadn't loved him or respected him in a very long time, either—not since she had grown old enough to understand that he was a disgusting excuse for a man. But all she could do was try to survive long enough to find a way out.

And so, she started on the job at hand.

“And clean this goddamn mess up, too!” her father snarled, kicking the bucket halfway across the store. Miley cringed again at the sound it made when it hit the shelving on the far wall. She was sure it was broken, just like her ribs had been the last time he'd kicked her like that. They had healed weeks ago, but they still ached whenever she thought about it.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said again through gritted teeth, crouching to pick up the mop. Her mother watched on like some doe-eyed, frightened little animal, and it made Miley even sicker. She would never stand by and watch her own kids get abused like this. Hell, if he was her husband, she’d probably have run away a long time ago. Then again, she never would have been stupid enough to fall for a man like that. Love was the only reason she could imagine her mother suffering through all this, and yet, still, she hated her for it.

How she could love a man like that, Miley didn't know.

She had barely risen to her feet, off to get another bucket, when the bell above the door jingled all over again.

“Get it cleaned up before someone slips!” her father hissed under his breath at her before he hurried to the counter to smile and play the polite businessman.

“Hello, sir, how might I help you?”

Her mother scurried away like a little mouse out of the way of the newcomer.

Peering around the edge of the shelf where she hid in the aisle with her bucket, Miley laid eyes on him for the first time as he stepped up to the counter opposite her father.

He towered over her father, having at least a foot on him. Jet-black hair and an equally black short, cropped beard made him imposing enough at his height, but the tattoos that crept out of the neck of his t-shirt and covered both his arms made him look even more menacing. And those arms—hell, Miley didn't think she had ever seen so much muscle. He could have picked her father up and broken his back with just a squeeze.

“I'm here on behalf of the mayor,” the man said, and his voice was so deep it made Miley’s insides quiver.

Her parents glanced at each other, a flash of excitement passing between the two of them.

“Has he reconsidered my—” her father began, but the tatted giant raised a hand to cut him off.

“I'm here looking for information on a couple of people who have gone missing in town,” the man said, and though she could only see the profile of his face now, the way he looked at her parents intrigued her. He didn't look best pleased to be speaking to them.

It was an odd expression to see on him—on anyone in Nightstar, in fact. The whole town was filled with people who thrived on false politeness, only ever smiling and going about their business and looking the other way when something untoward occurred.

But this man made no attempt to hide his clear contempt for her parents.

“I don't know anything about no missing people,” her father said, glowering back at the man.

“And you, Mrs. Peters?” the man asked without so much as a blinking, turning to look at her mother.

Miley bit back laughter. Even if her mother did know anything, she wasn't fool enough to admit it. Her father would accuse her of trying to bring trouble to their door if she did.

“No, sir,” her mother said, head dipped as it always was. Miley wondered if her mother could even turn her face to the sky anymore.

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