Page 48 of Widow's Walk

Not in surrender. It’s not like there won’t be plenty of alcohol and sharp objects where we’re going.

Let him think he won.

Or let him think I’m silently plotting.

Chapter nineteen

Sinclair

Running off alcohol and violence, we pull up to the hellhole I was forced to call home.

I’m not consumed with feelings of nostalgia. No cleaving to any memories. Nothing to even reminisce on. Only malice and contempt fuel me. The thought of setting the estate ablaze and watching them burn alive, screaming for help, begging for mercy, stirs up something dark and almost euphoric inside me.

Blackwell keeps me close, but not for safety or affection. It feels heavy like a chain, not warm like a comfort. As if he’s here to parade his trophy for winning a hunt for exotic creatures, and he plans to hand me over as a tribute.

He’s not gentle when he pulls me out of the vehicle with him, and I glance up at the height of the estate. At the attic.

They thought that by banishing me up there, I would alleviate them of grief. In a way, it did. I kept myself hidden up there more often, lurking in my little tomb, rather than hunting down mynext victim to drag their sorry ass through their polished halls. But every time I did emerge, it was open season.

A shudder trickles down my spine, imperceptible through my coat, when Blackwell drops his hand lower on my back. His touch still causes me stress, but for this moment, it steadies me, whether he knows it or not. I find some peace in it, like an anchor on my sanity and tranquility.

My mind drifts into a fog the second we walk through the doors. It smells the same as I remember. Cold. Lifeless. Embers and soot. The painful past tries to choke me, but I’m too checked out. So far detached, I feel nothing at all.

I have no idea who takes my coat, but my father materializes like the devil, that repulsive, poisonous smirk twisting his face, my brothers trailing behind him like pathetic pets. Thank God my mother isn’t here. I somehow hate her most of all.

I plaster on a confident smile, ready to propel forward when Blackwell’s fingers catch my hip in a subtle gesture, yet a warning undertone. “Let them come to you,” Blackwell’s voice pierces through the fog, rapping into my ear.

To anyone watching, it may look like a tender whisper, sweet nothings spilled against my ear. But to them, all they see is control and correction. A man reminding his woman of her tight leash.

His breath ghosts across my skin, chilling my spine. The torrid heat of his proximity almost has me wavering. But I’ve trained for this. To remain idle against dominance and tyranny.

Stillness is safe.

Stillness is survival.

Stillness is safe.

Stillness is survival.

I’ve worn a mask, impenetrable and bulletproof, for so long, I’m not even sure what’s underneath it, if there’s anything left at all.

Let them come to me.

When my father realizes we aren’t advancing, he strolls forward to close the distance. He shakes Dario’s hand first, then to Blackwell, and down the line. Everyone smiling like snakes.

“Sinclair,” my father says in a dead, monotone. His chin only dipped slightly. His soulless eyes lingering on me for too long. A toned-down version of his beady stare when he had too much to drink, but I can see the fire and filthy thoughts swirling behind them.

When Royce’s obsession with me came to light, he beat him to a pulp. But it was in no way a paternal reaction. It was jealousy. Because then he took it out on me, too.

“Hello, father,” I reply, my posture unflappable.

Lincoln and Royce flank his sides to follow our father’s lead with stiff handshakes and sneers posed as smiles. Lincoln gives me a cursory nod that I barely acknowledge, and I avoid looking in Royce’s direction at all. I can physically feel him trying to suck me in with his eyes, or perhaps it could be Blackwell he’s sizing up.

I’m suddenly regretting the outfit I chose for tonight. I resist the temptation of recoiling or bolting for the exit. I hate how easily they can still tear me down with one single look. I hate how they can make mefeel anything. I hatethem. And I hate being here. Why the fuck did I agree to this?

Because I refuse to cower, letting them win.

The only way to get through this evening is to imagine slicing them into pieces, basking in their anguished screams, and bathing in their blood. Picturing all the ways I would inflict pain and torture on them, murdering them in my head over and over again until I’m numb.

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