Page 39 of Left in the Dark

Her eyes meet mine as she turns around. Instead of looking away, she gives me the middle finger.

Little minx.My dick hardens inside my pants, and I quickly zip my robe before everyone sees it.I’d love to punish her for that.

Goddamn it. Stop it. You hate her, remember?

My watchful eyes don’t leave her as she moves into position. She pretends to look at the program, oblivious to everyone around her.

But when Daniel turns around and says something to her, the look on her face is pure rage. She glares at him, motioning for him to turn around. When he doesn’t, she holds up her middle finger in his face.

Rage ticks in his jaw before he turns, his eyes meeting mine. Then he faces straight ahead.

That’s right, asshole. Turn the fuck around before I knock you out.

My gaze slides back to Delaney, who stands there with her fist clenched at her side, silently fuming. Even though I tell myself I don’t care, the memory of the bruises on her face and arms flashes inside my head. Rage fills me at the thought of them hurting her.

Quit lying to yourself. You’re not over her.

CHAPTER 27

Delaney

Graduation went off without a hitch, other than being acutely aware of Zayne staring at me most of the night, his brows furrowed and that cute little line appearing in the center of his forehead when he’s deep in thought. It was hard to squash the urge to approach him, trace the line to his brows, and then slam my lips over his.

Of course, my father would’ve had a coronary on the spot.

Sadly, I don’t hate that idea.

Realistically, I know that’s wishful thinking. Richard Warner would have been the perfectly composed husband, father, and DA he always is in public. Behind closed doors, he would’ve beaten me unconscious again.

It’s beentwo weeks since I last saw Zayne on graduation night, but there hasn’t been a day where I haven’t stared at those pictures of us from the folder my father tossed at me. I keep the folder hidden beneath my mattress so no one finds it. I’m sure my dad knows I have it, though. His own brand of torture.

I’ve passed the time by running the trails behind my house and going to the lake with Callie. The pain over losing Zayne lives inside me, dimming during the day only to rear its ugly head when he haunts me in my dreams.

Since he’s been gone, I’ve started having panic attacks again. Just like after the chocolate milk incident, I’m taking prescription medicine, which I hate, but at least I can sleep again.

My mom walks into my bedroom, a smile on her face. “Going to the lake with Callie?”

I nod, grabbing a pair of flip-flops from my closet. “Yeah, she’s picking me up in ten minutes.”

When I straighten, my mom chews on her lip, a worried frown on her face. “Listen, sweetie, we haven’t had a chance to talk about what happened….”

I blink, disbelief filling me at her flippant tone. The longer I stare at her, the more the anger builds.

“You mean the night your husband beat you unconscious because he found out I’d been ‘slumming it’ with Zayne Morine? Then he slapped my face before forcing me to go along with his diabolical plan that forced me to stay away from?—”

“He shouldn’t have hit your face.”

“Hit my face.” I parrot. My hands are on my hips as my chest heaves. “He shouldn’t hit me, period. He shouldn’t beat you either, Mom.He could’ve killed you.”

She winces. “Delaney, please. Lower your voice. Someone could hear?—”

I shake my head, disappointment filling me. “That’s part of the problem. The silence. The secrecy. It fosters the climate of abuse, allowing it to thrive. No one sees Dad for the monster he is because you protect him.”

Her hands knot and twist together, fidgeting as she finally meets my gaze again. “He wasn’t always like this.”

I stride closer so I’m right in her face. “I don’t give a fuck if he used to act like Prince fucking Charming. The second he hit you, he revealed exactly who he is.”

Although her body is shaking, I can’t stem the flood of emotions rising inside any more than I can the words flowing from my lips. “He’s an abuser, Mom. No matter how you spin it, you’re the victim of domestic violence. And so am I.” I blink rapidly, fighting back tears. “When I was in third grade and received a ‘B’ in Math, he beat me black and blue. I became a victim.” I stare at her closed-off expression, knowing I’m not getting through.

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