Page 42 of Cruel Lies

I shook the interloper off and doubled down, enjoying the way Angel’s face started to turn a beautiful shade of purple. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he stopped struggling as much, though I could tell there was still some life left in him when I finally turned him loose and stormed away.

The last thing I saw as I marched back into my room and slammed the door was Harper hunched over him, her hands on his neck, assessing the damage I’d done.

I didn’t so much care that she cared about him, but I was livid that her first concern was the asshole who told her to her face that he’d rather her be dead, so he didn’t have to interrupt his perfect fucking life.

How could she care about a monster like him?

NINETEEN

ANGEL

"You guys are fucking crazy."Her fingers grazed the bruises forming on my throat, tracing the outline of Nash’s fingers embeddedinto the skin. "Is this a normal day for you three?"

My shrug of dismissal as I shoved her off of me was telling. "What a normal day is for us is really none of your concern, Harper. We’ve made it this far without you; we will continue to do so even when you’re gone."

The words stung, like tiny little papercuts, one after another after another, until it hurt to move. They were intentional, meant to drive a wedge between her and us so that when we eventually had to kill her, or someone else did it for us, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But I knew I was just kidding myself. I was only prolonging the torment.

Nash wasn’t the only one who had self-harming tendencies. The difference between me and him was that my scars were internal. Emotional trauma could wound just as much as physical damage.

"Fine, if that’s how you want it, I’ll just let you sit here in pain." Harper’s snort of disapproval made me angry—how dare she not fight for control of the situation—but of course, when all was said and done, it made sense. I pushed, she pulled back. She was taking her cues from me. It shouldn’t have hurt like it did, knowing that my tactics were successful.

And yet . . .

I watched her march around the kitchen, searching under the counters and in cabinets for something she apparently was unable to find. The pieces finally clicked after the third cabinet, though, and I rolled my eyes at the undeniably amazing woman she was, to roll with the punches and still have the mental capacity to care.

She and I were always more alike than I ever wantedto admit.

"The first aid kit is in the office, under the cabinet with the empty vase on it."

Her gaze shot to me, but I refused to meet it, and off she went in search of what I’d correctly guessed as her target. She’d constantly worried about us growing up, making sure Nash and Rowan cleaned their wounds when they came home from some scuffle or impromptu football game with scrapes and bruises. With me, it was usually when Father would take his hands to me, insisting the only way to make me man up was to beat the sissy out of me.

It never did have the intended result. But it did mean that Harper had plenty of time to learn effective first aid and practice her skills.

She even reset my arm once when he’d broken it in a fit of rage. After that one, Rowan started stepping in, and I knew the reason he ended up with double the bruises and cuts, fat lips, and black eyes was because he was letting Father beat him instead of me.

Fucking martyr.

I didn’t want that kind of shit on my conscience. So after we left that house, left that man, I did everything I could to move my ledger back into the black with him. I went out of my way to complete jobs on the side, bringing in much-needed income while we were getting our footing and finding out who we were. I cooked, cleaned, and cared for my brothers the only ways I could—tending to their wounds. The physical ones, at least, I could mend.

The invisible ones on the inside, they were on their own with. I wasn’t a therapist.

Ironically, that was Nash’s department.

"Found it!" Harper held the little red bag aloft, shaking it back and forth as she danced a little jig of celebration over to the couch. She sat back down, laid out the supplies on the coffee table, and set to work.

I didn’t fight her this time. There was no use, really. She’d have her way, just like she always used to. One chip at a time, she’d chink away your armor until there was a nice Harper-sized hole for her to wriggle her way in through. And just when you least expected, she’d wrap those arms around you, promise it’d all be alright, and somehow, you believed her.

We always believed her. Up to the day Father told us it was her or us. Demanded we kill her, or he’d kill us.

She couldn’t fix that.

We didn’t even bother to let her try.

That man had a chokehold on us, and there was no shaking free.

"Hey, Rowan really stocked this thing good, didn’t he?" She shuffled through an assortment of gauze pads and bandages, her eyes lighting up like it was Christmas.

"Who says Rowan put it together?"

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