Bolt’s Flame (The Devil’s House MC: South Carolina #1)
Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
PROLOGUE
THE SOUND of breaking glass sounded through the tiny house, followed by the crash of something heavy hitting the floor. My heart pounded in my chest as I pressed my back against the peeling wallpaper, my small body wedged into the narrow space between the wall and the doorframe. I could hear my mother’s muffled sobs from the other side of the door, each one sending a sharp twist of pain through my chest.
“Don’t you dare fucking cry!” my dad’s voice snarled, loud and dangerous, making me shake. My fists clenched, my knuckles white as I fought the urge to burst into the room and throw myself between them. But I was only eleven—too small, too weak. I knew what would happen if I tried to interfere.
He would beat her even harder, making me watch.
Another crash, another cry. I could picture my mom’s tear-streaked face, her arms raised in a useless attempt to shield herself from his fist.
And I hated her for it.
Hated that she never fought back, that she always stayed, no matter how bad it got. A scream of frustration built in my throat, but I swallowed it down, burying it deep where the anger festered.
I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t watch this happen again and again. The thought of running away crossed my mind so many times, but where would I go? Who would help her if I left? At least I could help bandage her up, take care of her.
The anger inside me felt so powerful, like it could swallow me whole, mixing with helplessness until it became a cold, hard resolve. One day, I swore to myself, I would get me and her out of here, make her see, make her understand.
A bottle shattered on the floor, followed by a curse. The front door slammed open, hitting the wall with a loud bang, and heavy footsteps stomped out of the house, and then the door slammed shut, leaving behind a suffocating silence.
I waited, counting the seconds, until I was sure my dad was gone. Slowly, I unclenched my fists and pushed away from the wall, my small frame trembling as I forced myself to open the door. The living room was a mess—overturned furniture, broken glass, and the remnants of a bottle of cheap whiskey staining the threadbare carpet.
And in the middle of it all, my mom sat on the floor, clutching her side, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
She looked up as I entered, her eyes wide, full of sorrow and tears, and I felt that familiar twist of anger and pity in my chest. But I kept my face blank, refusing to let her see how much it hurt. I couldn’t afford to be weak like her, not now.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice flat, almost cold.
She nodded. “I’ll be fine, Kye.” But the tears kept falling, and she reached out a hand toward me. I hesitated, then started to take a step back, out of her reach, angry at her even as I loved her. The pain in her eyes deepened, so I touched her hair, giving her a small smile before turning away to clean up the mess my dad had left behind. “Go lay down. I’ll clean up and check on you.”
I heard the small moans of pain she made as she pushed herself off the floor and made her way to the bed. How could she just keep letting him beat her up like this? When we could just leave and get away. How could she be so weak? Was it because she still loved him? As I swept the glass into the dustpan with angry sweeps, the questions went unanswered, and the sad fact was she would never leave, at least not alive.