Page 153 of Seizing Control: Part One

It’s an impossibility.

Even with Zeke dead, I love them both different but equal.

“Don’t tell him that I was here today,” I plead when we come to a stop at Uncle Cass’ restored Changer. “I need time to come to terms with everything.”

“He’s in no state to talk right now,” Angelis admits. Guilt coils through me, a serpent that can strike at any moment. “I’ll do my best to have him on his feet in a month.”

“Okay.”

After settling me into the driver’s seat, he slams the door shut.

I wind down the window. “I’m not trying to treat him badly... I truly love him.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“He’s got to decide if it’s enough.”

“My son is a smart man—” Angelis chucks me under the chin. “—so, I know he’s not going to let the woman he’s loved for a decade go without a fight.”

As I drive out of the underground garage, I am filled with hope.

It’s a spark.

The barest ember.

But I think I can nurture it into a flame with my husband’s help...

29

SLASH

A month later

Icy water is poured over my head.

Goosebumps break out over my skin.

The hard ice cubes bounce off my teeth when I open my mouth to shout, “Fuck.”

Gasping for air, I push up from the mattress in a rush. The gun I’m holding is snatched out of my hand, and my ear lobe is twisted in the next instance. Pain flares, but it has nothing on the ache in my heart and the throbbing behind my eyes.

“Gonna fuckin’ kill ya.” I drunkenly rage as my wavering eyesight tries to focus on the idiot who’s just signed their death warrant. “Will take my time about it, but you’re a?—”

The declaration is aborted when I realise whose life I’m threatening.

“Nae, mo ionmhas,” Mumma retorts in the angriest tone I’ve ever heard leave her mouth. “Yewillny dae nae such t’ing.” The pressure on my ear disappears. I see the slap coming, however, I do nothing to avoid it. My head whips to the side, stinging erupts in my cheek, then my mother jabs me in the chest. “Because the Trinity is gunna at your hoose in two hours, and I expect ye ta be thir in a state fit to represent the cut yer wear.”

“Mumma,” I call after her when she spins on her heel and stomps toward the door.

My father is waiting on the threshold. Arms folded over his chest, he inspects me with a look that telegraphs nothing but disappointment. I avert my gaze when our eyes lock. Grasping the wet sheets, I try to choke out the words I don’t want to say.

“Mumma... I can’t go home.”

“Pffft.” She waves her hand in the air with agitation. “No’ can’t, won’t.”

My mother walks away before I can muster an adequate response to her blunt assessment.

“Your wife will be there, too,” Dad tells me in a tone that could strip paint once we’re alone. “She wants to talk to you.”

---