Page 122 of Rose
Saint’s eyes shifted toward Selene.
The power move was clear. When Marley pushed too far, he sent for her twin.
Selene, the soft one. The calm one. The deadly one. Her silence could choke a room.
“Mar, chill,” Selene said, her voice cool but final. “Savior knows what’s required of him. He’s the oldest. He’s next in line. He’s not going to the waterpark—like his father said.”
That was it.
No defense. No motherly instinct. No trace of love. Just obedience.
Marley rolled her eyes and turned away in frustration. Savior stood frozen, heart pounding behind his ribs.
Why did he ever think his mother would have his back?
She never did.
Later that day…
Slap. Hit. Pain. Blood.
That was all Savior felt as his father’s fist slammed into his ribs again.
He was only eight, but already stood chest-level to his 6'3 father. Tall for his age. Stronger than most kids. But it didn’t matter.
Because none of that made this feel less like hell.
Savior was training like a soldier. Being punished like a criminal. And today, he’d cried. Not because he missed the shot during their hunting session—he could’ve hit the target. He had the skill. He missed on purpose. It was defiance. A silent scream for help.
While Macho, Olivia, and the twins screamed on water slides, he’d taken the safety off a rifle and aimed his heart at nothing.
His father didn’t take the message. He took it as disrespect. And now, he was paying for it.
Saint’s fists were unforgiving. Each punch came down like he was trying to carve weakness out of his son’s body with his bare hands.
Savior’s skin burned where the blows landed, and he could already feel bruises blooming beneath the surface of his dark skin.
“Fight back, nigga,” Saint growled, standing over him like a mountain made of rage.
Savior clutched his ribs, struggling to breathe. His arms ached. His legs were jelly. And his soul felt like it was disappearing.
He didn’t fight back.
Because fighting back would make it worse. Fighting back meant war. And he was just a boy pretending to be built for it.
“I didn’t raise a pussy. Hit back!” Saint roared, throwing another punch that sent Savior stumbling to the floor.
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. But he didn’t let them fall. Not in front of him.
The door opened.
Selene stepped into the room, still wearing her swimsuit and a sheer cover-up, the scent of chlorine and sunscreen clinging to her. A phone rang in her hand.
She didn’t flinch at the sight of her husband standing over their son. Didn’t scream. Didn’t run to Savior. She held out the phone, wordless, her gaze low.
“Call,” she muttered, offering it to Saint.
Savior looked up at her. Hope flickered in his chest—tiny and foolish.
