Page 1 of His Wild Storm
CHAPTER 1
ONE YEAR AGO
HAVEN
The moment the front door of the house clicks closed, the fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I can’t put into wordshowI know, but I just know there’s something wrong. There’s a warning in the air and my body recognizes it instantly.
My knees lock up and the only thing I can think about is how grateful I am that I already put Wilde to bed. I don’t want him to see whatever is about to happen. He’s already seen far too much in his young life.
Regret tries to pull my mind away from the impending danger, like when you can see the storm clouds on the horizon. I should have gotten out already. I should have taken Wilde and gotten out so many times.
But fear kept me in place and now the only thing I feel on a regular basis is dread.
Gone is the love that used to keep me going in between moments of violence.
Gone is the hope that our relationship and Wilde’s childhood won’t be marked by words with barbs and punches that land.
I glide to the microwave with silent feet to heat up his dinner.We’ve done this dance so many times, but I can’t seem to learn the right steps. Even when I’m trying to follow his lead, it’s wrong. There’s nothing I can do about it, and I’ve come to expect my inability to do anything right.
It’s a heady feeling. You’d think it would take the pressure off my shoulders, but it’s the opposite. I fight without the ability to see or hear, while weaponless.
I remember learning about Greek mythology in school and there was one where Sisyphus was doomed to roll a bolder up a hill only for it to roll right back down. And then he did it again. And again.
His never-ending struggle was the punishment Sisyphus had to endure in death because he incurred the wrath of Zeus for exposing his bad deeds.
Now, I’ve never exposed a Greek god’s bad deeds to my knowledge. I’ve never fudged my taxes. I’ve helped people in need. I’ve tried to live morally with my head held high.
Yet here I am pushing the bolder that is this relationship up the proverbial hill every day. Then it rolls down in a dervish of pain, regret, and violence which is impossible to anticipate.
“What is that smell?”
The question is sneered from behind me and my entire body tenses. I smooth my face out in the hope of keeping the fear from my eyes and the anticipation from my body.
“Meatloaf,” I keep my voice bright, but low and measured, “and mashed potatoes with garlic, like you like them, and green beans.”
He doesn’t like fake, and he’s never been shy about calling me out on it. But fake is the only thing I can be now.
I fake being happy.
I fake feeling safe.
I fake like I’m sticking around.
Even though I can already feel the doom circling and sliding against my skin, I can’t flinch. Too many plans are in place. It’s just a matter of time before I get out.
With Wilde.
Because he’s the only thing that has kept me here. He’s also the reason I’ve been having whispered conversations, made lists only existing in my mind, and have been hiding trinkets to build a future Ryan knows nothing about.
“Your meatloaf is always dry,” he groans like a fucking toddler.
I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at how ridiculous this whole thing is. The countdown clock in my head hits zero and I know I’ve fucked up. I kept my back to him for too long.
Suddenly, I’m spun around, his hands weigh heavy on my shoulders before his fingers start to tighten. His touch might as well be a noose. He gets right in my face and everything inside of me curls in on itself.
“You think this is funny?” His question feels like acid against my mind, his tone malicious, and gleeful because now he’s justified what is to come.
“No, I don’t,” my lips barely move, the words softer than he has ever deserved.
