Page 94 of Striker

My mind whorls, flashes of him with her over the years, making me feel like I may actually be sick. The times he’d demand she be the one to bring reports. Demand she come to his office or to his house. He was hurting her while we lived at home with him, before we left for college. And all the times we came back to visit. My father’s been hurting her… this girl who was supposed to be like his daughter.

Like me.

My stomach heaves again and I clutch my middle.Clyde. Does he know? There is no way that he would allow my father to brutalize Cora. But then again, I never thought my father could do the things I just heard Cora say.

“Princess?” When Striker enters the room, I don’t look his way. They knew too and didn’t tell me.

“Is this why you keep saying he’s a bad man?” I ask. “You knew?”

“Yes, and no.”

I stare blankly out the window, his words barely registering. My gaze lifts to the ocean. How many times did I stare out this window, wishing I could go home? That I could hug my father again. Now I never want to touch him again. Or see him. Speak to him. Work for him. He’s not what I thought he was.

He’s so much worse.

“We knew he was hurting her,” Striker says. “But we didn’t know to what degree.”

I turn to face him, pressing my back against the window. “Does Clyde know?”

Striker shakes his head, eyes casting down to the floor, then back to me. “We don’t know for certain, but I don’t think so.”

His response settles my stomach some. The idea Clyde was complacent to Cora being abused all these years may very well be what sends me over the edge.

“Is this why you took us?” I shake my head as the words are leaving my mouth. No. I always forget about the missing puzzle piece. I’ve racked my brain, attempting to piece together so many explanations for their thirst for revenge against my father, but none seem to fit or make sense. Power, money. These men don’t need it. They’ve created their own. This mansion may be in ruin, but it’s a statement to their wealth. I look up at Striker standing above me. “What did he take from you?”

His eyes close briefly, then he sinks to his knees in front of me. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Uncomplicate it,” I say quietly. His gold eyes look lost, like he’s not even in the room. “Striker, tell me, please.”

His gaze snaps to me, pupils dialing in and out as he regains focus. He sinks back on his heels and slowly lifts a hand. At first I think he’s going to reach for me, pull me to him like he does when he wants me close, but doesn’t want to admit it. They all do. Reaper, worst of all. They pretend they are big and mean and scary, using aggression to keep us from asking too many questions or from seeing that deep down, they just desperately want to be touched.

Striker lifts his hand to his head and I almost laugh, thinking he’s once again trying to run his fingers through his hair like he does when he gets irritated. They don’t realize that while they’ve been watching us, I’ve been watching them.

When his fingers curl into the top of his mask, my heart stutters. When he pulls and the thin fabric slides upward, my heart skips, once, twice, then pounds. At the first hint of hisjawline, I nearly gasp. Even though I saw it before, saw the same full lips, and dark stubble, it’s still a shock. I forgot how perfectly sculpted his jawline is.

As he continues to slide the mask up, I see high cheekbones and I remember yesterday in his room, and as it slips higher, his wolfish, gold eyes framed by those long lashes, come into view and then suddenly I’m staring at his face. At a thin, sculpted nose. An intensely cut brow line. At warm, dark brown hair that falls around his eyes, frames his ears. A thick, masculine neck.

My first instinct is to shut my eyes. “No,” I whisper. “No.” I choke on a sob. “No.”

“Princess.”

I shake my head.No.

“We took you—”

“No!” I scream, digging my fists into my eyes. I don’t want to see him. If I see him, can fully identify him, it means only one thing. I’m never leaving. They’d never allow this unless they’re planning on disposing of me, or worse.

Never letting me go.

My throat tightens with a clawing panic as the weight of it all hits me.

It all makes sense. I had thought at first they took us so my father would comply with their demands. Pay money. Make some business deal. I thought my father would do anything to get us back, thinking about how we may get abused. Raped. Tortured. But no.

I know now why my father never came. Why they said he doesn’t know how to find me, or where to look. Why I’m so far away. Why Clyde hasn’t brought an army here to kill them all and rescue us. Why they’ve kept us here, alone, then feeding me little tidbits of sweetness. Slowly giving me comforts. Touching me so gently at times that I waited with bated breath for thenext bit of tenderness. Made it so I’m so starved for contact, so desperate for them, I’d accept a spanking with my face in the dirt. That I’d willingly spread my legs and beg for them. Why Cora was treated so differently. They guessed she would be relieved to be here. To be away from Rune’s sickness.

I was right the second I woke up.

It’s a complete mind fuck. But I wasn’t their target. I never was. It was my father they were planning on ruining, not me.

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