Page 65 of Seeking Shadows

My body writhes, expelling something that isn’t just physical—it’s a dirty despair, a revulsion from deep inside. My arms shake, my legs barely holding me up, and the bitter taste in my mouth only makes it worse.

I drag myself home, every step heavier than the last, my body already protesting against the thought of what waits inside. When I open the door, the sound hits me—her moans, raw and guttural, filling the air in a way that makes my skin crawl. It’s too familiar, too painful, but it doesn’t stop. She’s sprawled across the couch, barely conscious, while a stranger touches her like she’s nothing more than an object, a shell of the woman she used to be.

The sight makes my stomach lurch, a twisted knot of disgust and helplessness tightening in my gut. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything about this moment feels wrong, like I’m drowning in something I can’t escape.

I stumble back out the door, desperate to get away, to escape the suffocating weight of it all. But I can’t. My body rebels, and I throw up on the sidewalk again, the bitter taste of nausea burning my throat. It’s like I can’t get away fast enough from the nightmare that’s my reality, one that keeps coming back no matter how hard I try to forget.

I can’t tell mom. I can’t tell anyone.

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel clean again.

PRESENT

She was alone with me twice after that. But as soon as puberty hit, she backed off, giving up on the chase. She wanted the punishment, the power over me, but she had a specific age in mind for her prey. Abby was the only one who ever saw through the cracks, who noticed something was off. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I didn’t want to break Abby’s heart, and honestly, I couldn’t face the truth myself. I felt small, like a weakness I couldn’t shake. It pissed me off—because it made me feel weak.

And I hated that more than anything.

My mother once told me that I had always looked a lot like my father—the same light hair, the same curls, the same smile. I didn’t have Kyle’s sharp appearance that screamed danger. I had a delicate beauty, and that made me fragile in the eyes of many.

I never reported it or said anything. It wouldn’t have changed anything. My mother wouldn’t have reacted; she was too busy. And Kyle already had enough to worry about.

I never wanted to be the pretty, delicate face. I just wanted to be a kid.

But when my eyes connect with hers, I feel like I could be anything. Like every piece of me is cherished for what it is—not some creepy idealization.

The way Mia likes me is so innocent it almost makes me believe something like that actually exists in this twisted world.

My head hurts like hell. And when I say like hell, I’m still using a euphemistic term for the pain.

This is the result of being locked with your abuser for more than an hour. She never got what she deserved. On the contrary, now she’s a doctor, richer than before.

I wonder how Mia does it—how she numbs her pain so deep inside and focuses on being positive.

It takes a huge amount of strength, I guess.

Maybe that's why she interacts with those people as if they're real—it's like she's teleported herself to a different world, one where her broken reality doesn’t exist.

She’s built a refuge, a space where the chaos doesn't eat her alive. I can’t blame her for it. It’s survival, in its own messed-up way. Her mind’s trying to protect her, even if it means slipping into a world that only she can see.

I look at my target and shoot, grounding myself in thoughts of Mia’s past instead of mine. It always makes me want to kill the people who hurt her.

Luckily, today I’m doing something I’m relatively good at.

Shooting.

“At least you’re good at shooting,” Mia says, as if affirming my thought, a certain pride in her voice. I smile.

I have Uncle Gary to thank for that. Abby’s father always made a point of teaching all of us. I’m not as good as Harvin, but I can manage well enough.

“I learned from my family,” I reply, thinking about what it was like to grow up in a motorcycle club. It wasn’t so bad when my dad was still alive.

“There’s so much about your family that I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean, you have direct access to my asshole father. My evil stepmother—you haven’t met, but you don’t even want to. My little sister, who’s probably going to invent the cure for cancer one day. And then there’s Seth.”

“The impulsive sociopath?”

“Don’t talk about him like that. You don’t know what he’s been through!” Mia says, coming to her brother’s defense with so much energy and protectiveness that it makes me laugh.

“Sorry. I used to run from him. It’s just weird to me that—”

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