Page 195 of My Ruthless Husband

She hesitates, glances at Damian before saying. “River… Damian is our foster brother.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Age Twelve

Damian

The mower’s engine rattles through my hands, each vibration numbingly familiar as it climbs up my arms. It’s the same sound I’ve gotten used to every day this summer.

I move in a steady rhythm, the sound pounding in my ears like an old, heavy heartbeat. Every line I cut into the grass is dead straight, each pass precise.

Even though it’s hard work, I am addicted to it because it helps shut off the world—to let the machine drown out the memories, the screams that still echo in the back of my mind.

My face is set, eyes fixed downward, shoulders squared against the sun that bakes my already darker skin.

The heat bears down, blistering, but I keep going. There’s nothing else I can do. If I stop, I might start thinking about it again.

My stomach growls, a hollow reminder that I haven’t eaten today, but it doesn’t matter. Eating would mean staying at the Samsons’ longer, and every minute there makes my skin crawl. I’d rather be here, mowing this yard, pushing through the sweat stinging my eyes and the aching dryness in my throat. It’s better than sitting around under the Samsons’ watchful, judgmental gazes or dodging their fists when they’re in one of their moods.

I can handle the beatings but their words… the rough words they spit out about my family… I can’t handle it. They treat me like I owe them for existing. And maybe I do. They feed me, after all. They make sure I’ve got a roof over my head, no matter how cold or cracked it is.

I’d give anything to leave that place. To leave behind the way they act all nice and smiley when some officials stop by. It’s all just a mask; underneath, they’re monsters.

I don’t know who this new kid is, the one they’re getting today, but all I know is he’s one more person they’ll torture. It makes me sick. I shake my head to concentrate on the present.

I keep my pace steady, letting the mindless task eat away the hours. I know the drill—trim every corner, keep the edges neat. Anything less will bring complaints and a few dollars less in pay. And I can’t afford that. I need that every bit of money to scrape by until I’ve got enough saved to make my way out of this town and leave the whole mess behind.

After an hour, I finally kill the mower. The yard is neat, the grass all level and even. I move to the driveway next, grabbing the hose and starting to wash away the dirt and grime.

I feel the aching fatigue setting in, the dull throb in my arms and shoulders. I swallow, the roughness in my throat nearly painful now as I trudge toward the house.

I barely make it to the porch before the screen door flies open, and there she is—Mrs. Marcel, her arms crossed, lips pressed tight.

I straighten up a bit, bracing myself.

“Thought I told you to stay outside,” she snaps. Her eyes rake over me as if I’m something unpleasant she found stuck under her shoe. She glances over the yard with a frown. “Are you done already?”

She’s in her sixties, maybe, with gray hair and a sour look that never leaves her face and a voice as sharp as nails.

“Yes, it’s done,” I say, my voice flat. I step back as she approaches, careful not to get too close, my hands shoved in my pockets.

I watch as she marches down the steps, taking her sweet time to inspect every inch of grass. She bends down to look at the edges, muttering something I can’t hear, just loud enough that I know she’s looking for any excuse to knock my pay down. Next, she examines her driveway.

I just stand there, silent, waiting, the sun beating down on me, sweat trickling down my back.

After what feels like forever, she turns back to me, her expression still sour and reaches into her purse, pulling out a few crumpled bills. She shoves them at me. “Here,” she says, her voice clipped. “Next time, try not to miss the edges. I’m not paying for half a job, you hear me?”

I nod and take them without meeting her eyes. It’s just a few dollars, barely enough for a meal, but I don’t say anything. I stuff the money in my pocket, my throat so dry I can’t swallow.

“Thank you,” I mumble, even though I know she couldn’t care less.

She looks at me with this half-sneer, like she’s just itching to say something else, but for some reason, she doesn’t. Just turns back toward the house.

When I first took this job, a few guys from the neighborhood warned me about the old lady—said she was racist. But I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. She was the only one without anyone else willing to work for her, so I took it.

I watch her go, fighting with myself. My mouth’s like a desert and my throat feels like sandpaper and the idea of pedaling all the way back to the Samsons’ in this heat without so much as a sip of water is intolerable. But asking her for anything feels like scraping up what little pride I’ve got left.

But my throat is burning, and the hunger clawing at my stomach isn’t helping the dizziness creeping in at the edges of my vision.

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