Page 88 of Mountain Daddy

On my floors.

Where my son plays.

I scrub harder and start to cry. I’m soaked to the bone up to my knees, but I don't care. Need to get it out. Need to make this place untainted for Chleo.

When the blood still doesn't come out, I pour bleach directly onto the floor. My eyes sting but I keep scrubbing. My hands hurt, but I keep scrubbing.

The tears now are on autopilot. I barely notice as they hit the floor. Can’t hear myself sob over the roaring in my ears.

“Stop.”

The word is soft but firm. A hand closes over mine, stilling the brush.

I look up. Nikolai’s crouched beside me with agony in his eyes.

“You’ll tire yourself,” he murmurs. “You need a break.”

I want to tell him I’m fine. But all I manage is to let out an ugly sob.

“I took care of it,” he says softly. “The men who did this. They won't be back.”

I throw aside the brush. “You killed them?” I ask, knowing he’s capable. I saw him, five years ago, beat a man into deadweight. He’s capable of things I’ve never wanted to consider.

He doesn't answer and I know why. Because he did it.He killed.

A sob tears from my throat. I reach for the brush again, needing to do anything other than this conversation. Nikolai stops me, his hand curling around mine.

And then next thing I know, I’m ugly crying. Like,ugly uglycrying.

That's when I feel it—the snap. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I feel like I’ll die right here. I want the floor to take me under and never spit me out again.

The very life is being crushed right out of me.

He grips my shoulders and pulls me away from the bleach soaked floors. I fight him, try to break free, but his touch is the only thing grounding me in the moment.

I stop fighting. Let my nervous system override all common sense.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.”

He wraps his arms around me. Pulls me against his chest.

I let him hold me. Just for a while. He traces soft patterns on my back. He almost lets me forget that hell rained over. I bury my face in his shirt. It's clean. Warm. Smells like him. And it only makes me cry harder.

“I'm sorry,” he sounds gutted. “So fucking sorry for bringing this to your door.”

He’s sorry? He did this? He brought this to my door?

God, it would be so easy to make him the villain. To pin it all on him.

But the truth? It’s messier than that.

I’ve been lying for five years. Running. Hiding a boy from his father. And every step I took trying to protect him has somehow led us straight to this.

“They weren’t going to stop at vandalism,” he explains to help me understand.

I push back. Just enough to see his face. Wipe angrily at my tears.

“It was necessary.”

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