Page 11 of Destructive Truths

He doesn’t let up. Lash after lash, insult after insult, all marring my bare skin with raised welts while preying on my mental state.

Suddenly, the loud creak of seized hinges echoes off the walls. Dense footsteps ripple down the staircase and then Donnacha’s voice penetrates my ears. “Well, if it isn’t my baby brother.”

Prying my weighty eyelids open, my gaze travels over him, searching for— No, hoping Saoirse is not with him.

“Not so hot, now. Are you, Rohan?” His hoarse sneer grates on my last nerve, and if I weren’t otherwise occupied, I’d wipe the smug look right off his pompous face.

“Where’s the girl?” My father’s voice drips with disappointment, gaining all my attention. I swear to fuck, if Donnacha laid a finger on Saoirse, I will bury him alive—as soon as I figure out how to get out of these fucking chains.

Eyes on Donnacha, I watch as he swallows back the answer to our father’s question. As he shifts on his feet, I let my blurred vision take him in.

He looks worse for wear. His face is a swollen black-and-blue mess, courtesy of last night’s altercation. But when my eyes land on the dark red fluid staining his denim-covered thigh, a slow malicious smile curls on my lips. Gabriel must notice it at the same time as I do because he stalks around me, eyes trained on the torn denim of Donnacha’s jeans. “What happened?” he demands.

“The bitch fucking shot me!”

I can’t help the sputter of laughter that barrels past my lips.

That’s my good girl.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Gabriel grasps hold of my hair, tearing my head back with so much force it almost dislocates from my shoulders.

I slide my tongue along my front teeth while raising my left brow. My blatant disregard spurs him on, fuelling the monster that lives behind his perfected mask. I shouldn’t feed the beast, but here I am, typical Rohan, disobeying rules.

I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the concussion, or perhaps the sedative my dad injected into my bloodstream, but I erupt into an all-out, slightly deranged cackle. The vision Donnacha’s words paint is too glorious to ignore.

I can’t believe she shot the bastard. And so close to his shrivelled cock, too. Golden! Honestly, I’m a little pissed that I missed her in action. I would have paid good money to see Donnacha’s face at that moment. Maybe Aodhán caught it on camera? Oh fuck, what if he wasn’t there? I swear if Donnacha hurt her, I’ll cut him up, wrap every piece of him in a body bag, and bury him six feet under hell.

Reality slams into me when Gabriel rounds my body, hikes his leg, and belts his foot against my jaw. The echo of my crunching bone chills my eardrums, but I clamp my lips shut, swallowing back the curse on the tip of my tongue. Fuck, that one stung.

Finally, my head falls forward, my exhausted body incapable of holding its weight.

“Is that all you got, old man?” My taunt is airy and breathless, grumbled into my chest, but he hears it nonetheless.

“Shut the fuck up, you little cunt.” A fist slams into my rib cage, knocking the remaining wind from my chest. I blink through the aching of my bones while sputtering up a lung.

Jesus Christ, the devil is a relentless bastard.

My eyes fog over, dulling the room, stealing my definition, and making everything fade into a shapeless blur.

My senses are dwindling, so I focus on the one I still have control over—my hearing.

With my ears pricked, I zone in on the pacing footfalls and mumbled grumbles.

“Fuck. What are we going to do? There is no way we’re getting to her after this. Whoever is protecting this stupid bitch will be on high alert.”

“We could—” Donnacha tries before my father abruptly halts him.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough? She’s escaped your clutches twice now.”

“What if—”

“For fuck’s sake, Donnacha! Keep your fucking trap closed. I can’t think over your incessant bullshit.”

The room falls silent, except for the thud of Gabriel’s feet as he strides back and forth, reminding me why Donnacha is my sperm donor’s favourite. Donnacha is a lamb, loyal to his shepherd. But here’s the thing about shepherds—they only breed lambs for slaughter. My father failed to make me comply, to follow him blindly in his ruthless schemes, and he certainly couldn’t manipulate me into doing his bidding. My lack of respect for him paved the road to our father-son demise. Now, I am nothing but a blooming flower in hell’s garden, too pure for the Devil’s soul.

* * *

Ice water douses my skin, chilling me to the bone, and dragging me from my haunted abyss.

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