Page 8 of Savage Possession
My father rounds the table so fast I don't see the bruising blow coming until I’m wearing the back of his knuckles across my cheek.
“That’s how bitches are put in line.”
Grudge’s putrid breath fills my nostrils and his vile words make my stomach ache. The evil gleam in his dark eyes is all I see when I drag my gaze from my father to him.
My father shoves his hands in his pockets and acts like this is just another day and I’m nobody to him.
“Both of you are pretty trashy pieces of work,” I seethe. I feel a trickle of blood ooze down my cheek, but I leave it be. Its pain is nothing compared to the betrayal of a man who used to cradle me during thunderstorms and tell me there are no such things as monsters.
What a fat, ugly ass lie.
My father sighs, turning his back to me. “I figured you’d find your backbone tonight. I hate to do this to you.”
I take a hesitant step back. “Then don’t,” I counter. I can’t believe his indifference. Or can I? This isn’t the first time he’s shown me his cold side. “You disgust me to the core of my being, but I doubt you give a shit.”
My father gives me a look of pity and I see the flinch of his hand.
His men close in, their steel-fingered grip unyielding on my arms. My heart thrums wild, blood roaring in my ears. They drag me to the parlor, where Father Gregory waits, pale and shaking, his hands twisting in the hem of his robe.
I catch his eye, desperation pouring out of me. “Father, you don’t have to do this.”
His gaze flickers to my father, then to the bible in his hands. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I can’t help you.”
Something snaps inside me. I roll a bare shoulder and straighten my spine. I let my elbows fly. One to the left and another to the right. I didn’t plan it and I have no training in the ways of kicking ass, but I land both blows to the men holding.
There’s a deep satisfaction in the sound of something crunching and then blood running out of their noses.
That’s all I see before I dart for the fireplace. I don’t stop moving until I have my hands around an iron poker. My golf game is as non-existent as my fighting skills, but I swing with every ounce of fury and terror I’ve bottled up for years.
Iron clangs off someone’s arm. I twist free when one of my father’s enforcers lunges for me.
From there everything is a blur as I bolt down the hall, my bare feet slapping marble. My dress snags on the doorframe as I barrel past my father. I barely hear the shouts behind me. Instinct and panic pushes me to run faster and forget the pain of rock on my bare feet as I blaze down the front steps.
Outside, the world is dark and slick with humidity. I spot Grudge’s bike, the keys miraculously glinting in the ignition. My lungs are on fire as I hike my shitty dress and throw a leg over the seat.
Something else I’ve never done. But here’s to learning new things on the fly, tonight.
I turn the key and fumble with the gears or whatever they are called. I rev the motor as soon as the engine rumbles to life. I jerk and nearly fall over but a nearby car gives me the leverage I need to right myself and the monster between my legs.
Gravel goes everywhere, and I nearly topple over. A miracle happens and I manage to get the bike going down the driveway to the sound of roars and shouts from the men. Probably Grudge too, but I don’t dare look back.
More gravel flies and the single headlight paints frantic, twisting shadows over the trees as I careen down the drive.
I drive blind, weeping and breathless, for what feels like an eternity—through fields of cane and moss, past the black-glass surface of the sleeping bayou and I don't stop until I am three parishes over from where my father’s mansion stands.
Every mile puts another layer of fear between me and the life I can’t bear to return to.
When I finally pull to a stop, it’s on a side street far from the bookstore. The air is heavy with the scent of coming rain and jasmine, the parish lights a faint flicker along Haven’s main street. I white-knuckle the handlebars. I can’t go home. There’s only one place left to run.
I creep through side roads, and back alleys until I find the only place I might be safe.
The Broken chapter.
Above the back door is a small camera and a little red light that fills me with more hope than I have felt in a long time. I kill the engine and jump off, letting the heavy beast roll another ten feet before it falls over.
Metal scrapes and crunches, and the screeching sound is gloriously satisfying.
Serves the rat bastard biker right for the crap he tried to pull tonight.
