Page 55 of Volatile Obsessions

I skid to a stop and eye the stairs. They’re so close. I could just run and lock myself away.

But deep down, I know that wouldn’t end well for me.

The sick realization clogs my throat. I whimper and set both my plate and my drink at the foot of the stairs, then retrace my steps, stopping at the arched threshold between the living area and the kitchen.

“Where are your manners?” he asks, him tone seemingly friendly as he gestures to his guests.

My arms come around my middle as all four men, my father included, stare me down. “I apologize,” I say to them. “I’m just so hungry.”

“Not an excuse,” my father growls, racking another shiver down my spine.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

A mere second ticks by before Fredrick chimes in.

“I’m hurt, little L.”

I snap my gaze to where he sits in time to catch him holding a hand to his chest. “Had me waiting all night. I wanted to see you before I left and you don’t even say hello?”

Of all the men, Fredrick likes me best, and my father lets him have sex with me the most, doesn’t even make him pay like the rest. They have the kind of relationship I once used to wish my father had with me. He loves him—genuinely loves him—like a son.

Technically, he could be his son. He’s only twenty-one.

And I’m fifteen, just to put things into perspective for you.

My father loves him so much, he let Fredrick take my virginity two years ago. It was nothing like they say it should be. Wasn’t sweet or slow. There were no kisses or soothing touches either.

I did bleed quite a bit, though, but perhaps that’s because I fought him the whole way through, begging him not to strip me of my innocence as tears rolled down my cheeks. I hadn’t made any sort of vows to keep it intact, but I’d hoped someone special would claim that card, someone who took my breath away, someone who loved me.

It was brutal, and a part of me died that day.

The next time, I fought him harder, tried screaming louder. I even bit him when he sealed a hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. But the third time, the third time I learned it was best to just keep my mouth shut. No one was coming to rescue me, especially not my father, not even when Fredrick pulled out his uncle’s pistol and whipped me across the face.

I wore that gruesome marking for weeks, and my mum truly believed I’d fallen down the stairs.

With time, the rest of the men followed suit, some more aggressive than others. Either way, I simply took it, no protest.

Because what was the point?

My cries would only fall of deaf ears.

“Well, you saw me,” I snap at him.

My father’s eyes bulge at my disrespectful tone. “Watch that tone, young lady.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize for the third time. “I’m just hungry. I’ve said hello…can I please go now?”

“I’ll walk her back up to her room, Pops,” Fredrick offers immediately, and of course, my father nods without a word, clapping him on the shoulder with pride in his blue eyes.

That twisted, blood-chilling sound of approval is what dissolved the memory into nothing. When my stare refocused in the moment, I found myself standing before the bathroom mirror, eyeliner wand in hand.

I sighed at myself in frustration.

I’m doing it again.

Staring off mindlessly as flashes of my past played at the forefront of my mind. I’d do it at the most inopportune times, too. Can’t say I missed this one bit, not when the last few years of my life I’d finally been able to keep them at bay, tucked far, far away in the very depths of my mind.

But after what happened with Vic, they flooded me with a vengeance.

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