Page 117 of Breaker

My gaze falls to the inside of the wooden door. The grooves left by my little fingernails still etched in the wood grain.

It’s just a closet. Not a tomb.I am no longer that helpless girl. I am a woman now, determined to put an end to being everyone’s doormat.

Hanging on the metal bar are old sweaters and raincoats. In the corner my little rain boots sit, the yellow flowers faded. On the top shelf are old storage boxes and albums. I stand on my tiptoes, reaching for the first album. My finger’s brush the edge and pictures scatter, fluttering like leaves to the floor as pull it down and hug it to my chest.

“What are you doing?” Clyde asks from behind me. I startle, dropping the photo album.

“Nothing.” I drop to a crouch to stuff the scattered pictures in the book and stand upright, kicking the door shut.

The loudclangof the doorbell makes Clyde stiffen, and he grabs my arm, glaring at me. “What the heck are you doing? Who is at the door?”

I give him a sly smirk. “Zane and I have some important matters to discuss.”

***

Maybe this was a bad idea. My hands tremble, and my heart is pounding so fast it’s making me dizzy. This meeting felt like a good idea the other day, but right now I’m not so sure. Right now, I feel like the small woman I’ve always been—an afterthought, a pushover, someone to be used and cast aside.

A pit-stop on the way to better things.

A symbol of revenge for a man whose cruelty knows no bounds.

“I’ve got the bastard waiting in the foyer.” Clyde’s deep voice breaks through the mess in my head. “Want to tell me what you plan to discuss?”

“No,” I say, avoiding eye contact as I slide my palm over the glossy desk. My eyes land on the white envelope holding either my freedom or my demise. “Send him in.”

A day ago, I had called for a cleaning crew and now the house sparkles under the late afternoon light streaming through the open drapes. The faint scent of lemon polish lingers in the air.

I miss Viper. Miss his hands on me and the way he seems to eat up the space in a room, like it belongs to him, and he just allows others to exist in it.

Striker

Reaper.

God, how I yearn for Delly.

A few minutes later, Zane saunters in, Clyde trailing closely behind. Zane gestures to the large desk, lip lifted into a snide smirk. “Embracing your roots, I see.”

I give Clyde a dismissive nod and I feel so much like my mother in this moment that my stomach roils.

Clyde turns to Zane, pointing a finger in his face in warning. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself or I’ll cut them off.”

Zane’s chuckle earns him a deadly glare as Clyde exits the room, closing the door behind him.

He’s going to give me such shit later.

“Please, have a seat.” I gesture to the plush chair across from my father’s absurdly large Victorian desk. As I stand up from my seat, I smooth down my mother’s slacks and move to stand before him. Propping a hip on the desk to stare down my nose at him, which is hard to achieve when you’re only five-foot-two. “And tell me about my roots.”

His eyes narrow as he sits, unbuttoning his navy blue suit jacket as he does. Zane is a contradiction in every sense of the word. He’s handsome and charming. His smile makes people believe he’s open, his pretty eyes almost kind. But he hides his darkness behind a statin veil because he’s pure evil, all the way down to his tarry, putrid soul.

Because what kind of man laughs when a mother locks her little girl in a closet?

“Why am I here?” Zane asks, clearly annoyed. He won’t be soon. Soon he’ll be cowering. “I came here with the understanding you were ready to—“

“Suck your tiny dick?” I cut him off, leaning back and crossing my ankles. “Let you fuck me? Tell me Zane—“ I leanforward, gripping the arms of his chair, my face level with his, ”—do you still cry when you come?”

I stumble backward as he shoves me away. Zane bolts from the seat, his eyes swirling with rage.

He grips the collar of my shirt and drags me forward, but then forcefully pushes me away as a laugh slips from my throat.

---