Page 75 of That Sik Luv

However, a dark place deep inside me knows there’s some truth to this. An intuitive reasoning within my mind is feeling some sort of release because every part of my past that made little sense now does.

The eternal stain of condemnation. The Devil’s Doll.

Now I stand facing the man who’s somehow found a way to get me to uncover my truth, crawling on floors for him, pulling out documents, exposing my very own hidden past by finding it in his maze. He wanted me to be my own hero. Even now, as he stands against this tree, only giving me my answers if I learn to fight for myself.

“Fuck me up, darling.”

I crave a hug. An embrace. I want to collapse into my brother’s arms. I want to call Mia and cry to her, let it all out and give my burdens to another. I want my parents to return from their African mission trip to wrap their arms around me, tell me everything will be alright, and to focus on God’s will. To put my faith in Christ and let him handle things for once.

One thing is for certain, Aero isn’t that person. No one handles his fate besides himself. His idea of empathy is proving I won’t kill him in this masochistic display of a knife lesson.

Holding the knife as he instructed, my heart races, and the inability to breathe has my chest tightening. So much is weighing down on me at the moment. The attempted murders, the secrets, the lies…

I take a deep breath, attempting to internalize my confusion, my pain. Closing my eyes, I envision him against the tree. I listen to the silence of the surrounding forest, still echoing with my heart-breaking cries as I took out my frustrations. Aero’s voice hums in the background, telling me to look at him, yelling out instructions, but I don’t want to hear it anymore. Faith and fate will need to benefit him today. He’s pushed me too far. So far.

I keep my eyes closed and hold the handle out before my face, throwing it by the blade in one fluid motion, like a dart, as he instructed.

Hearing the blade hit something, I open my eyes, finding dangerous ones filled with fire glaring in my direction. The knife hit the tree just above his right shoulder, as instructed. However, it appears I’ve nicked his neck. Blood, as red as the blood pumping wildly through me, leaks from a minor wound. I gasp, dropping my hands to my sides.

“Ask,” he demands in a dark tone, angry as he pulls the knife with his fist from the tree behind him.

My eyes trail down to the envelope, and my mind runs rampant.

“A-am I, or was I...adopted?” My eyes well with tears at the word.

“No.” he answers simply, walking away from the tree, approaching me.

“Then why is there a birth certificate with my name on it from St. Augustine’s? I was born here. At St. Francis. And the dates,” I stutter. “The dates are off.”

He ignores my rambling, reaching behind his back and pulling out three more knives from somewhere. No is the only answer I get.Asshole.He holds them out for me, but my brows pinch and my glare lifts to find his as his hand holds them out for me to take. He shrugs and drops them on the dirt before my feet, proceeding to walk away.

Planting himself before the tree again, I eye the length of his lean legs beneath his black jeans, admiring the strength of his toned physique without him knowing. He turns, giving a light head nod, urging me to continue.

My lip curls in disgust, but it only intrigues him further. I can tell by the way excitement dances behind his darkened eyes, the way his fingers roll into his fist as his tongue skates across his bottom lip. Even from this distance, I see it.

Picking up a knife, his deep tone startles me.

“Left shoulder,” he commands.

Blood boils beneath my flesh. I don’t know what I’m doing, but if pain is what he wants, I’ll give him a slow death with my inability to hunt. Keeping my eyes open this time, I hold the blade between my thumb and fingers, using muscle memory in an attempt to repeat what I’d already accomplished. As soon as the blade leaves my fingertips, I know it’s shanked. The knife misses the tree entirely, flying past him to the left.

But I threw a knife. I get an answer.

“Who’s Veronica Fields?” I ask, anxious for the answer.

He retrieves the knife before answering, and I pick up another from the forest floor. Settling himself before the tree again, I watch as his jaw flexes.

“My mother.”

I feel an ache in my heart for him. I’m reminded of what he told me about her.

“Throw,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

I can’t stand his one-word answers. They infuriate me. I set myself to throw another, aiming for the same spot he’d already instructed. He never flinches when I throw. He doesn’t cower or move at all as the knives hurl towards him. I can’t understand it, and it only ignites my rage.

The handle of the knife bounces off the tree above his head as it falls into the dirt.

“Why do they want me dead?”

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