Page 100 of The Heart of a Villain

Seconds trickle by, and then she grabs my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin, and our gazes clash. She searches my face for something, and she must read confirmation on it because devastation crosses her features. She bites hard on her lower lip, drawing blood, yet nothing else escapes her.

Her grip becomes almost painful on me as she gathers herself and gets up, urging me to follow after her. “Get up.” She drags me upward forcefully, and I sway a little, my toes curling into the ground. “You’ll catch a cold.” She takes off her jacket and throws it over my shoulders, the wet cloth making zero difference, but I don’t dare to say it out loud. “You need to go home now, sweetie.”

“Valencia—”

Her splayed palm stops whatever else Aunt Callista wants to say behind her, and she repeats, “You need to go home now.” With this, she walks straight ahead, moving toward her glass studio that allows us to see everything going on inside.

“Mom.” I take a step to her, confused and hurt at her reaction, but Uncle Arson pulls me back.

Silently, we all watch her reach a place she calls a sanctuary, where she has spent countless time with my father, and she enters it, closing the door with a loud click.

She presses her back against the door, her chest raising and falling while second pass by around us and finally she slides down the wood on the floor. She hides her face between her knees and her body shakes from the sobs, her long hair blanketing her from our view.

And even though it’s impossible, I can almost hear her gentle and so full of love heart irrevocably shatter into tiny little pieces that will never glue back together.

Mom’s voice startles me, snapping me out my thoughts and bringing me back to the present. “Being an autumn baby doesn’t save you from getting sick, you know?” she teases, turning off the music but still staying in her spot, probably contemplating if she wants to hang outside some more.

In the past three months, my mom did her best to not stay inside the house because according to her, even walls have the power to suffocate you, as they hold so many memories.

I point at my clothes—jeans and a sweater along with sneakers. “I’m warm enough.” Then I smile at the maid, who joins me on the terrace, holding a tray with two steaming cups and a cake. “Thank you.” She places it on the small round table we have here, which is made out of the finest dark oak, along with four wicker chairs.

She beams at me. “You’re welcome. Levi is still sleeping. Should I wake him up?”

My stomach flips at the mention of my brother, who came home from college straight away months ago and hasn’t left, deciding to take the semester off in order to be with us. And in this, he gave up on his professional athlete career for good because no one waits for anyone in sports.

Another sin to add to the never-ending pile weighing on my conscience.

“No need. It’s still early.” Especially for him, while during the day he handles all the business stuff with Uncle Arson, going over various assets… at night, he parties hard only God knows where.

I guess each one of us grieves our losses differently.

“Mom!” She looks over her shoulder at me, playing another piece of classical music that gets on my nerves, as now the sound is permanently associated with the hardest time of my life. “Let’s have some tea!”

She nods, wraps her scarf tighter around her form, and walks slowly toward me, enjoying the wind whooshing over her as leaves crunch under her shoes. “The weather is amazing. Fresh and warm with a tad of cold breeze. Perfect for a ballet workout.” She smiles at me, giving me a light peck on the cheek before sitting on the chair, and I do the same.

“Yes.” I slide the cake toward her, and she wiggles her nose, probably ready to refuse it. “It’s your favorite. The cook baked it just for you and said his heart would be broken if you don’t have a piece.” My voice hitches on the last word, sliding my gaze over her form and studying it under a critical eye.

Her collarbone is more prominent, the dress seems a little bigger on her already slender form, and although the dark circles under her eyes are less visible now, they are still there, speaking of the turbulent time just past.

She didn’t eat well at all during the first month after my kidnapping, which resulted in her fainting from exhaustion, and doctors had to forcefully push food into her. Since then, we always make sure she eats at least something, or else she forgets.

Mom hides her grief well—or rather does her best for us not to touch it, always wearing smiles or a stoic expression for us and staying kind to her core.

“My pain is my own and should not affect the kids. Lachlan wouldn’t have wanted that. I have to be strong. When you’re a mother, you don’t have the privilege to be weak.”

Her words spoken to Aunt Callista play in my mind a lot, especially during our frequent evening dinners, where she always asks us about our day and encourages us to not stay all holed-up in the house.

“Well, I can’t turn down chocolate cake.” She picks up her fork and digs it into the cake before putting it in her mouth. “It’s good.” She munches on it, although by the little wince, I know she isn’t hungry.

Wrapping my hands around the steaming mug, I raise it to my mouth and welcome the warm liquid in my throat, hating the silence falling around us because we have nothing else to talk about.

After years of a great relationship with Mom, all we discuss is either weather, food, or some general news, as if we are two strangers being forced to interact with each other.

Maybe because there is some truth to this statement, as guilt consumes me whenever I’m in her presence. At the same time, though, I cannot leave her.

I’d feel better if she scolded me or shouted at me… did something to blame me, but she’s never once harshly spoken to me.

Not once, even after Uncle Arson told her the entire truth when she demanded to know what really happened on that island.

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