Page 8 of The Heart of a Villain

I freeze at this, shaking my head in disbelief at the audacity that all Wright siblings apparently share.

In the span of three days, they all have managed to hurt me in one way or another!

And ironically, I stabbed the only one of them who was good to me.

Hurt and guilt wash over me akin to a powerful storm, threatening my sanity and composure while my soul cries out in despair, thinking about what I did to him and yet understanding I absolutely had no other choice.

“Rush,” I whisper, “he needs help.”

Rafael grabs his glass of whiskey, takes a large sip, and clicks his tongue. “Ah, you still show concern for your captor. Compassion is a virtue indeed. Too bad it has absolutely no value in our world.” He chuckles, although it lacks any humor. “I have to say I’m surprised something so pure came out of Lachlan.”

I will all the patience I do not possess into my fist because yet another person is about to insult my father. But I pause when I realize emotions don’t coat his voice at all.

In fact, his pitch doesn’t even change when he utters my father’s name. Compared to Rush and Lavender, he has no rage filling his every movement and word.

“Rush,” I repeat, needing to know he’s all right, even though it’s so foolish on my part.

If he’s not dead, he’ll come for revenge, and my situation will be much worse now, with two men wanting to use me for whatever dark desires they have.

Rafael claps his hands before clicking on the remote again. “We’ll get to that later. Like I said, we are on a very tight schedule here.” I open my mouth to protest but then gasp in shock when he snatches a knife out from under the couch, the blade glistening in the sun, and traces the tip over the table’s wood. “And focus this time around, Aileen. I’m not known to be patient, and you wouldn’t want to face the consequences of my temper, would you?”

Biting hard on my lower lip so a scream won’t escape me, I nod, sliding even farther away while trying to assess how quickly I can jump up and run toward his blade collection to grab a weapon for myself.

All thoughts fly away from my mind, though, when my gaze lands on the new picture, so vastly different than the previous one.

This time, the woman holds what seems to be a one-year-old Lavender resting her cheek on her chest, while the boys both hug her from either side, and she has her other hand on one of them. The father stands next to them, a smile shaping his mouth, yet it’s so despicable it sends shivers down my spine and coldness into every cell in my body.

Even from the photo, I can feel his horrible soul that must be completely rotten.

And something else snags my professional eye—the amount of makeup on their mother’s face and the sorrow in her gaze mixed with fear. Almost as if she used the cosmetics to cover up the bruises the man must have inflicted on her. It would explain the weird scars on her arms that weren’t present in the previous photo.

“What the hell happened?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it, too shocked by the difference, while my curious mind reels with thousands of possibilities, although none make sense.

If their mother was a victim of domestics abuse, then their father would have shown his true colors way earlier and wouldn’t have waited years to start hurting her, right?

People can change after having a baby, but once again, they already had two sons.

“I asked myself this question thousands of times over the years.” Rafael finishes his drink and puts it on the table where it rattles soundly. “That’s where you come in, darling.”

“Stop calling me darling,” I hiss at him and frown when his words register in my mind. “What do you mean?” Then it hits me. “Is it because of my psychology degree? You want me to give my professional opinion?” Considering the interior of the place, this man must be crazy-rich, so I don’t really think he couldn’t afford a professional before. But since none of the members of this family are sane, I’m not surprised by anything.

“You might be smart, but you’re eighteen and have zero experience in life.” Our gazes clash, and I shrink inwardly at the complete hollowness and coldness of his green orbs. “So, no offense, darling, but if I needed a professional opinion, I’d go to the best of the best.”

Yeah, okay.

“Then I don’t understand.”

He gets up, rubbing his knife over his cheek while he studies the picture, and then turns his attention back on me. “My mother was a gentle soul who loved her family. She only had two passions besides us—writing in her diaries and painting in the garden.” He goes to the bar, picks up a red folder, and then drops it on the table. “They look like this, and there must be around ten of them. She usually kept them all in a hidden spot, claiming we could all read them once she died, to keep the family legacy going.”

Ignoring the sadness and pain lacing his tone, I open the folder and see a photo of a black-and-white diary with a Celtic design that’s very beautiful. It even has a lock on it.

“She kept all the keys too. But then one day, I saw her ripping up her diaries and throwing them in the fireplace, watching them burn, right before my father grabbed his belt and beat the shit out of her,” he tells me, and a horrified gasp slips past my lips. He gives me a crooked smile. “He was a fucking psycho like that. He’d beat her and then kiss her, not minding her screams.”

Oh my God.

I can’t imagine growing up in such an environment, and my heart once again squeezes so hard it’s difficult to breathe, thinking about Rush watching his mother suffer so much.

Is it a wonder he grew into a cold human being who doesn’t believe in love, and then when he sees something he wants, he just takes it?

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