Page 89 of Once Kissed

“Was it that police officer—the one who watches you?” He scoffs when I keep my mouth closed. “Will you bed the trash collector next? Or is he too good for a woman of your repute?”

My breaths release in painful bursts, and my body turns unbearably rigid. I can’t take his verbal thrashing. But I also can’t stay quiet. “His name is Curran. He’s Declan O’Brien’s brother.” Father straightens. “He makes me happy,” I admit, my voice shaking. “And he makes me laugh. Last night, he made me laugh so hard I could barely walk.”

“Declan O’Brien has a brother?”

He doesn’t care what Curran means to me, and he still doesn’t appear to remember him. His thoughts fixate on something else, not that it should surprise me.

My happiness doesn’t matter to my father. It never has. “He has several brothers,” I answer. “All professionals who have invested wisely.”

Oh, look. He’s not impressed. The distaste puckering his lips makes that clear enough. “But aside from Declan, none are known, have sought prominence, or engaged among the elite. None. Correct?” he points out.

Curran’s brothers Killian and Finn are well known in the mixed martial arts circuit, but that won’t impress someone like my father. “No,” I answer, quietly.

His face twists, in that same way it did the last time he beat me and called me worthless. “You’re such afool,” he tells me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the blood coursing through my veins pulsing hard against my ears. I should be used to his cruelty. But my father’s words never fail to claw at my soul.

He circles me, like I’m his prey, probably because I am. After all, he’s spent years making me so. “The future king well within your grasp, Contessa, and you choose to bed the court jester, simply because he makes you laugh.” He walks away then, speaking with each controlled step. “Consider your last semester of law school unpaid—and consider it a charitable punishment. I tire of your incompetence.”

I startle when the door slams shut behind him, the sudden movement causing the room to spin and nausea to engulf me. I race into my bedroom and into the bathroom, throwing the lid to the toilet open as I fall into an awkward crouch.

I’m sure I’m going to be sick, the pain crawling from my stomach and to my throat burning like liquid fire. But despite the agony, I can’t escape my father’s judgment or his words.

It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked, or what I’ve achieved. To him, I’m nothing more than a drunken slut, far too inept to ever evolve into more.

The pain increases as his cruelty consumes me. I don’t want to be so weak. But when it comes to my father, I always have been.

Tears drip from my chin. How is it possible for him to defeat me with only words? Wasn’t he supposed to be the first man to love me?

The pain takes its time to dissolve until I’m finally able to stand and wash my hands. Slowly I walk out to my bedroom and lower myself to the edge of the bed. I glance down, realizing for the first time how hard I’m trembling.

I stare at my shaking hands. This time, misery doesn’t cause my tears. But hate does.

I hate my father.

It should hurt to think it, and I should feel some guilt. Yet all I feel is numb.

There are women who worship their fathers. Women who seek their advice. Women who easily express affection to the men who gave them life.

I was forced to worship.

I was told to idolize.

I sought advice to pacify him.

And I was expected to show affection.

But I never meant any of it.

One memory. I rack my mind for one moment that would hint at a true gesture of love or kindness. I find nothing.

I hate him. But I realize then that perhaps he hates me, too.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, only that it’s long enough for my trembling to subside and for darkness to claim the room. I finally stand and return to the bathroom, stopping short when I see my reflection.

My mouth falls open. Am I really this pale, or is this how my interactions with my father leave me—an apparition of what I could be?

I startle again when someone knocks, two beats followed by one, then two.

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