Page 1 of Among the Sins of my Father

chapter one

BERKLEY

Jericho holds Hope in his arms. I can see their reflection mirrored in the darkness of the car windows. His head is bent over her protectively as though shielding her from the world. She clutches him, her fingers and knuckles white, her head pressed to his chest. Naked.

Her body is frail, her hair is damp and sticks to the side of her face. She looks both filled with sadness and tremendous relief. They cling to each other, talking in low muted tones that fail to reach the front of the vehicle. There’s desperation and need in their connection. And even though I’ve lived with the knowledge for a while now, it’s the first time it truly hits me.

The man I love is loved by another.

He belongs to her.

She is his wife.

I am not.

My chest feels as though it’s being ripped open inch by inch. Slow and torturous. And I feel guilt. Guilt because she has done nothing wrong. Guilt because she has suffered in ways I can’t imagine. Guilt because most of that suffering was at the hand of my father. Guilt because she’s now safe.

And I despise her for it.

I fold over on myself as a wave of anxiety hits. It’s violent, this one. A small wail forces its way out of me as the flashes start.

A hand on the back of my head. Pushing. Shoving. Pressing me downward. Flesh—both soft and hard—forced into my mouth. I bite. The hand on my head fists into my air and yanks my head back. I’m greeted by dark eyes flashing in anger. A low and menacing growl sounds. And then a wound opens on his neck. Raw and gaping. Blood starts to trickle.

“Are you feeling sick?” Barrett asks, his eyes darting between me and the dark and winding road.

I want to say yes, but I don’t. I can’t tell him that the stress of the evening, of seeing Jericho and Hope together, is causing my brain to fire weirdly, spitting unwanted flashes of dark and depraved images into my mind. I can’t tell him they excite me. I can’t tell him I’m that sort of sick.

So instead I sit back up, giving him a hesitant smile. “It’s the winding road.” I nod out the window. “I guess it has just brought on a little nausea. I’m fine though.”

Fine. It’s such a non-descript word. Fine. Not good. Not bad. Fine. It’s nothing but a lie.

“Sure,” he replies, drawing the word out with a chuckle.

He doesn’t believe me. No one would. He knows the sweat that dots my head, the raised hairs on my arms, the paleness of my skin and the swirling nausea in my stomach don’t come from motion sickness. But he doesn’t push it.

The car clings to the road as it slices through the darkness. Barrett keeps looking behind as though he’s expecting flashing lights in the distance. Part of me expects them too. Even the whir of the engine reminds me of the sound of the gunshot.

Closing my eyes, I attempt to count to five and breathe deeply and slowly. I picture myself forming the first five positions in ballet, moving through the motions and trying to take my mind away from the events that brought us here, escaping through the darkness, eager to get back to the Sanctuary.

But it’s pointless. That sound of gunshot has brought back memories I thought long banished.

Flames leap up a building. A sinister smile spreads across a face too handsome to be recognized as evil. Cold metal between trembling fingers.

“Keep the gun on him, Everly.”

The voice is faded and distorted. The past collides with the present and Aaron Keating’s face dances in the shadows of my mind. I’m holding the gun, fingers trembling. Keating laughs. Another wave of nausea twists violently in my gut.

“Stop,” I plead quietly, not knowing whether I’m talking to Barrett or the mangled memories in my head. I open the door even though the car hasn’t slowed.

“Fuck,” Barrett mutters as he reaches across my body and yanks it shut again. “Okay, okay. I’m pulling over. Just wait, okay?”

“What’s happening?” Jericho’s deep voice sounds from the backseat.

No one answers him as the car slows and Barrett guides it into the gravel on the edge of the road. I open the door and basically fall out, using my hands to crawl, not caring when the small stones dig into my flesh. When I feel the damp grass, I press my head to the softness.

Ragged breaths wrack my body. It’s as though I can’t control them. They’re brutal and harsh as I struggle for air.

Please stop, I beg myself internally. Not now. Not with them all watching. Not after everything that’s happened. Hope is the one just rescued from a life in captivity, but I’m the one broken and useless on the ground.

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