Page 61 of Tricked By Jack
She waits, patient in a way that makes me want to shake her. When I don’t continue, a small, knowing smile curves her lips. “That’s what I thought.”
“Don’t push me,” I warn, but it lacks the edge I want it to have.
“Or what?” she challenges. “You’ll lock me in a cage? Force me to my knees in public? Make me come so hard I forget my own name?” She drums her fingers against the metal bars, smirking while she taps out a melody I don’t recognize. “You’ve already done your worst, Jack. And I’m still here. Still looking at you.”
I force out a low chuckle. “Have I?” I ask as I walk back to the door and light another cigarette. “For a prodigy, your mental capacity is pretty limited if you think you’ve endured my worst. We’ve barely just started.”
Her gray eyes stay on mine as she flexes her hand, the one I cut during the ceremony. She removed the bandage yesterday, deciding it was time to let it air. Personally, I thought she should have done that after the second or third day, but whatever.
Eve’s smile deepens, secret and knowing. “So what is your worst, dear husband?”
Ignoring her, I chain-smoke by the garden door, watching night press against glass while Eve’s words crawl under my skin. The fifth cigarette burns faster than the first four, ash dropping to marble like gray snow.
My mind circles her challenge like a predator testing weakness—what I really want versus what I planned. Two different beasts entirely. Behind me, fabric shifts against metal as Eve adjusts her position in the cage, the sound drawing my attention back to her like a compass finding north.
“Why did you call me a prodigy?” she asks, shattering the potent silence.
I shrug but don’t turn back to face her. I count the seconds, knowing it’s just a matter of time before she continues talking. Eve doesn’t appreciate silence as much as I expected given her career as a therapist.
“My dad wanted me to be a prodigy, so he forced me to become one,” she suddenly says. “I’m nothing like the people you sometimes read about. You know, when a five-year-old can play or compose better than Mozart, or when a twelve-year-old makes a new scientific discovery.”
I still don’t turn, don’t encourage, but I don’t stop her either. The cigarette burns closer to my fingers.
“He never saw me as anything but an experiment. One he could mold exactly how he wanted, which is what he did. I guess I could say I was both his greatest experiment and biggest disappointment.” She laughs, the sound empty of humor.
The confession hangs in the air between us, unexpected and intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I crush the cigarette against the doorframe, leaving a black smudge.
“He wasn’t raising a daughter,” she continues, voice steady but softer. “He was creating a successor. Or a legacy… maybe both.”
I turn to face her, leaning against the frame. “Is that why you became a therapist?”
“Yes,” she says, and there’s something like disappointment in her expression. “I chose it because… well, I’m not actually sure I ever chose it. It was what he expected, so I did it.”
The words hit with unexpected force, like she’s reached through the cage and struck something tender beneath my ribs.
“My dad…” I start, then stop, surprised by my own impulse to reciprocate. Her eyes on me feel like hooks, pulling truth I hadn’t planned to offer. “My dad hated me.”
I lock my gaze on her, wordlessly daring her to look away while I give her a small piece of me.
“The only one of us he ever liked, maybe even loved, was Nick. Ruby was useful since he could sell her off. I’m the only one who was completely worthless and nothing more than a disappointment.” I let out a bitter laugh. “He even had me killed.”
Eve’s eyes widen, her body going still. “He had you killed?”
My fingers drift to the scar on my torso, invisible beneath my shirt but always present. “I was dead for a few minutes before the doctors revived me.”
“Oh, Jack.” Her voice carriesa weight I don’t want to examine. “That’s—”
Not wanting her pity, I interrupt her. “When I came back, things were different.” I look toward the ceiling. “Death changes your priorities.”
I almost tell her about the Knight curse then—the superstition that claims two heirs from every generation. How Ruby’s death fulfilled the prophecy that’s haunted my family for generations. But something holds me back. That knowledge is a weapon I’m not ready to place in her hands.
“I understand more than you think,” Eve says quietly.
Before I can respond, she shifts, drawing up her knees and spreading her legs wide. My shirt hangs loose on her frame, but she pulls the hem higher, inch by inch, until the fabric clears her inner thighs.
It takes me a moment for my brain to register what she’s showing me. And now that I see the faded circles of puckered flesh, I have no idea how I haven’t noticed it until now.
The scars are pale and smooth against her skin; old burns, etched like secrets she decided to show me. Her garter tattoo covers some of the damage on that thigh, but not completely.
