Page 6 of Splitting Secrets
WHACK, WHACK.
My abs are practically shredded to pieces from tightening against the countless blows.
But my father doesn’t let up.
Five more hits this time. Then, two.
The broken broomstick sings through the air as it rounds on me again. It works in harmony with his heavy breaths and theloud smack that claps against my skin with each contact. It’s a song I’ll never forget. Sounds that will haunt me for eternity.
“I think it’s time to call it a day,” my mother’s soft voice breaks through the monotony.
My dad pauses mid-swing, then turns to face her. Sweat drips down his temples and splatters onto his bare shoulders. His hair is soaked in it.
We’ve been closed in here for hours now and nothing about it has been easy on him. My gifts have only strengthened, shadows striking him with equal venom.
“He’s still retaliating,” he explains to her breathlessly.
My mind clears and the black smoke curling around his calves begins to recoil back beneath my skin.
Her eyes flick to mine, brows turned upward in pity when she gets a full view of what’s been done.
I must be a horrid sight if her face indicates anything.
“We’ve been at this for weeks, and he’s only getting stronger,” he goes on cynically with a shake of his head, referring to me as if I’m not in the room.
“Give him time,” she urges, shuffling across the cement toward me. With gentle hands, she reaches above my head and unhooks the chains that are wrapped around my wrists. My father hung them from the rafters after the first day, when I flung him across the garage with the flick of my wrist after he whipped me in the back with his belt.
My arms fall uselessly against my sides, shoulders aching.
He rubs his forehead. His hands are splintered and bleeding. “We should keep going. This is when his responses are the most primal. This is where we break it.”
“He’s on the brink of unconsciousness. He needs a break. Neither of you have eaten in hours, anyway.” She grabs a towel from off the workable beside me and dabs it against my bleeding lip.
“Do you think the Syndicate will give him a break just because he’s tired?” Without waiting for her response, he shakes his head and points the broomstick at me. “No. They’ll double down.”
“Then it’s a good thing the Syndicate isn’t here right now, isn’t it?”
“Quinn.” Her name is an exhausted groan. She purses her lips when she hears it, her brows lifting toward the broomstick his hand is still wrapped around in a challenge.
He huffs out an irritated sigh, then sets it down against the wall. My dizzy gaze pings back to her—to the victorious smirk tugging at her lips.
Wrapping her hands around my sore shoulders, she directs me toward the door that leads into the house and ushers me past my father. “Let’s get you washed up and fed. Then, you can head off to bed,” she says into my ear.
“You’re coddling him,” my father grumbles from behind.
“He’s my son,” she bickers back.
“He’s a Mirrane,” he reminds her, his voice resolute. She doesn’t even pretend to act surprised at his insensitivity. It’s always been as if my bloodline gifts were prioritized over everything else, including her. “He needs to learn how to control these gifts before anyone catches onto them.”
“I’m trying,” I croak, my voice nothing more than an exhausted whisper.
My mother squeezes my shoulder pitifully and pushes me into a kitchen chair. My father sits across from me as she makes her way toward the sink to grab a fresh rag and run it under the faucet.
“You’ve got to stop thembeforethey release from your body. It’s harder to reel them back than it is to hold them in.”
“They react to the pain...” I whine. I can hold my gifts back with ease under normal circumstances.
“That’s why we’re doing this.” His fist bangs against the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers. I wince, and my mom throws a warning glare over her shoulder that he ignores as he continues. “To train your gifts not to react unlessyourelease them. My father did the same thing to me when I was your age. His father did it to him too. We’ve been forced to train the gifts to obey us before anyone catches wind of them,” he explains for the millionth time.
