Page 83 of Brutal Prince

Just thinking about Dad, repeating that story, brings a visceral image to mind; how pale and thin he looked on his bed, skin the same color as the sheets but more translucent. He’d insisted on coming home — said he didn’t want to die in the hospital — and I hated him for that because I knew that, when he died, his spirit would haunt us forever.

And it did.

A black cloud hung over our house every second of every day after he passed away.

My legs go weak, and I hurriedly sink to the ground before I fall.

On my knees, ass on my heels, hands on my thighs — here I sit in supplication to Prince Briar. Am I begging him to stop tormenting me, or for him to go through with his threats?

He watches me with that same intrusive glare as before; silent, unreadable.

Probably waiting to call bullshit on my train wreck of a life.

I smile, but there’s fuck all warmth in it, because my soul is frozen solid. I’ve been a fucking Ice Queen for half a decade. And my frozen heart? Some random, sadistic fuck shattered it a week ago.

I grip my hands together so they’ll stop shaking.

“Eleven days ago, someone broke into my house and murdered my mother.”

Briar’s mouth twitches, but that’s it.

One. Fucking. Twitch.

“Case is still open. No suspects.”

I lean forward, pressing my palms onto the moss.

Briar slowly sits up and runs his hand through his hair with that same silent scowl on his face.

Guess you wish you could take back all that shit you said earlier, huh?

“One guy. That’s what the cops said. Could have been more, but they only found traces of one—”

I cut off.

Fuck, I can’t do this. What the fuck’s wrong with me? This is private shit. I’ve made my point.

I push up, but Briar darts forward and stops me in my tracks. We’re both on our knees, our bodies a few inches apart. I have to look up at him to see his eyes, and he’s gazing down at me like I’m some kind of forest fairy that’s about to grant him a wish.

My stomach coils uneasily as he slides a hand around the back of my neck, the other on the small of my back.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, back to scowling.

“You sick fuck.” I turn my head a little, bile-bitter saliva flooding my mouth. “You sick, sick—”

“Tell me.”

I swallow hard. “What, so you can get off on—”

He squeezes the back of my neck, and I cut off, taking it as a warning. He dips his head a little lower. Suddenly, he doesn’t look angry or frustrated or smug. There’s an intensity to his gaze, some kind of urgency.

“Wh—?”

“You’ve never told anyone this, have you?”

My stomach flips over. I shake my head, not trusting my voice right then.

“Then tell me. I can take it, whatever it is. Tell me, and forget about it. I’ll keep it for you.”

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