Page 156 of Tempting Little Thief

I should, but I can’t. Anger and so much more are boiling inside me, stewing and stirring and I’m going fucking crazy.

“I have been locked in this house forweeks,only ‘allowed’ out for classes I shouldn’t even have to take because I’m a fucking Revenaw. Because someone is watching us all like a hawk and you can’t figure out who it is, but you won’t allow me to help.”

“It’s not your concern.”

“It is my life! My work is being handled by other people. I’m putting my members out into the world, chewing them out from a room with a pink princess canopy over my bed!”

His eyes narrow, and he speaks slowly. “I am taking care of things. This is not forever. It’s a temporary hiccup we are dealing with.”

“I want to go home. I want my life back. This is bullshit and you know it.”

“What isbullshit,dear daughter, is that you do not listen.” Warning flashes across his features, his anger deepening the wrinkles along his forehead, making him appear older. “You sneak off to go god knows where to do god knows what, with god knows who. I will not have it, not while your safety is at risk.”

“Our entire world is a risk. If you wanted to avoid risk and trouble for your children, maybe you shouldn’t have had any. Or better yet, maybe you should have just kept trying until you had a son because a man could protect himself better, right?!”

Our father flies from his seat, the table shaking, his chair soaring back and crashing to the cold marble floors. His eyes are thunderous, his voice roaring, rattling the dishes between us.

His body shakes, hands tense and clenched at his sides as he glares down at me.

His jaw is locked so hard I’m sure his gums will bleed.

For the first time in maybe ever, a hint of fear flickers down my spine.

I’ve never been afraid of my father. Nervous of his actions, yes, because duh.

He kills people and if he doesn’t, he has someone do it for him.

But right now?

The dead, dislodged void in his eyes as he stares at me from across the table makes me want to shrink, just as my lungs have.

“Go … to your room.” His voice is low and gravelly.

I begin to nod, but he doesn’t stay around to witness it.

He stalks off, a harsh slam echoing moments later.

I feel Boston’s eyes on me, but I ignore her, flying toward my room as quickly as I can without running.

My lungs fight me, demanding dominance, ceasing control beyond my own, and I know it’s too late to breathe through it. I lift my hands over my head, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth.

I hate this. I hate … everything!

I feel weak and pathetic and it’s disgusting.

My life was in control before … before what?

Before I was eight and moved into a mansion without my family because the manor had gone two decades without holding an heir and my father wanted me to be the first of the first females, even though heirs weren’t required to arrive until the age of ten.

Before my mom went to bed and never woke up, just two weeks after I left?

Before Bronx showed up two years later?

Delta a few months after that?

Before I dominated the Olympics, went to Greyson, climbing every fucking ladder put forth just for another to appear at the top?

Before my body decided to fuck me over and weaken me?

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