Page 87 of Thorns of Malice

French toast, strips of bacon, Canadian bacon, sausage links, sausage patties, and ham. Smaller bowls hold whipped cream, berries, and jam. Glass containers of orange juice, pineapple juice, apple juice, whole milk, 2% milk, and skim milk sit on the counter next to sparkling and still water, dishes of regular butter and honey butter, and a bottle of maple syrup.

I stare at the overwhelming amount of food, then suddenly become amused. I can't help myself, laughing until I cry.

This is so Dax Carrington.

In my house, we didn't waste food. Now that I know my father had all that money, I once again question why he was so worried about not wasting anything. His voice in my head warns me,"Don't be ungrateful and waste things, Ivy. The devil loves excessiveness."

My face falls. I stare at the food again.

There's no way I can eat all this. I study everything, then select a blueberry pancake. I set it on my plate, add butter, and pour syrup over it. Then I top it with berries. I cut the pancake and take a bite.

The blueberries are still warm with a hint of sweetness, and they melt in my mouth along with the buttery, sugary concoction. And I realize I'm starving.

I didn't eat at the event the night before. There was too much going on, and I was too nervous.

I eat half the pancake, grab a forkful of scrambled eggs, chew and swallow, then take a sip of water.

I pour a mug of coffee, stir in some cream and sugar, and drink half of it, continuing to stare at the abundance of food.

Why am I still here? I should have left the estate.

I glance around the cottage, shaking my head. "What am I doing?"

I eat more food.

I'm here to pay everyone back.

I'm not like these people.

I need to go. I don't know how to play the game the way they do.

I'm capable.

Am I?

Another internal debate continues, and I can't shake the fear that my enemies are too powerful. They have years of screwing people over, and I've never once done anything to intentionally harm anyone.

I push my plate away, unable to eat anymore, wondering if I'm crazy. I came here for a reason. I purposely reinserted myself into their lives, so now, there's no going back. I have to finish what I started.

I stare at the flowers, vowing not to let my fear dictate my decisions.

I mumble, "I will destroy them, all of them, even Dax."

My heart bleeds thinking of hurting him. I hate that I still love him and loathe that he claims he loves me. It makes it worse. Just like that girl ten years ago, the one who was gullible and believed him when he said he loved her, I want it to be true. I still want him to be my love story—my soul mate for eternity. And I still yearn for us to be together forever and for my father to love Dax too.

He'll never get the opportunity.

Dax killed Dad.

It was all fantasy. Nothing between Dax and me was real—at least not for him.

I hate myself for thinking those thoughts. They're dangerous. And I beat myself up some more thinking about how Icontemplated sleeping with the others last night so I could piss Dax off.

They raped me.

They didn't.

They did.

---