Page 8 of Little Nightmare

And I’d planned on telling him I was pregnant.

He would have been overjoyed—I think. I mean it wasn’t part of the plan but I’d always wanted a family and while he’d never said the same, why else would he risk his job and actual life to be with me if that wasn’t the direction we were headed in?

Now I’d be forced to paste a smile on my face tomorrow when everyone around me walked on eggshells and celebrated my life less than twenty four hours after mourning his death.

Great.

I didn’t talk the rest of the way to the road that would eventually lead to our compound. We weren’t far outside the city, but you’d think we were hours away. On thirty acres up on a hill surrounded by beautiful fences built beneath the ground along with enough cameras to gain the attention of NASA—the Alfero house was the stuff of legends.

Built completely out of concrete and steel, the only reason it felt like a home was because my mom was a genius at decorating and making us all feel at home. I think it was her gift, while my dad was both equally ruthless and sarcastic—mom was warm and peaceful—she was his anchor when things got stormy and he was the storm when anyone tried attacking.

They made it work.

I could only hope to have something like their love. I thought I did—would.

Now I had remnants of blood still stained on my soul and only one reminder of him inside my body.

Ace pulled the car up to the black iron rod gate. Cameras would digitally search his face, his car, the plates, and decide whether or not to let him in or bomb his ass.

He exhaled and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’re clearly upset.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact, no-shit way that I almost laughed. “Would it help if you hit me before we got inside?”

Silence for a beat.

I frowned. Was he serious right now?

Before I could respond he added. “You can yell if you want,” he said, checking his phone and glancing at the cameras on either side of the gate. “ETA to the front of the house is around seven minutes. Should we pull over, or do you think you can manage your nervous breakdown while I drive? I’ll go the asinine speed limit your dad has in place for the driveway.” The gates opened. We were greeted immediately with signs that said children at play, fifteen miles an hour. Dad put one every twenty feet. “Think he has enough reminders?”

I still had no words.

“I don’t bruise easily.” Ace added.

Something snaps inside me, maybe it’s his callous attitude or the extremely calm sound of his voice, but I absolutely lose it and throw a punch to his arm. I hit him over and over again while he drives slowly down the road. When I lost track of how many times I’d hit him, I pulled back. “Are you kidding me right now?” My chest heaves. “Louis is dead! Dead!” Hot tears slid down my cheeks in rapid succession. “And you’re just sitting there like nothing happened! You’re heartless with zero regard for human life! You’re a monster manifesting as a human being. You have no heart. If you did, you wouldn’t make me walk in there, you’d take me around the back and let me sneak into my room not parade me in front of the bosses, if you had a heart you’d at thevery least ask if I was okay, you’d hold my hand, or I don’t know you’d?—”

“But you’re not okay,” he interrupted me. “So why would I ask the absolute obvious and make you tell me how we both already know you feel? That’s just a waste of energy on your part and on mine. Your sadness is turning into anger and anger must be felt, hit me all you want. Besides, you need to eat, and the fastest way to burn calories is exercise.”

My mouth dropped open.

He kept talking as our car inched toward the ginormous building. “Your volume is quite good; you always were good at yelling. At the very least, it helps relieve the stress you’re feeling by thirty percent, lowering your cortisol levels by twenty-five percent if you’re lucky.”

“You’re an asshole!” I shrieked.

“No, an asshole would suggest you crawl into the back an hour after burying your boyfriend and suggest sex since it significantly lowers stress levels, sometimes by forty-two percent, though results vary on your partner in each scenario.”

I had no words.

None.

So I stared at him and imagined wrapping my hands around his throat. This guy? He was supposed to keep me safe when he was already a danger to my sanity?

Forget sadness. I had murder on my mind.

My dad had clearly lost it.

I’d talk to him after I changed.

This would never work.

It couldn’t.

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