Chapter 26 #2
I look at her, then at the woman who birthed us—who taught me everything I know about how to end a life, and nothing about how to live one—and feel that same split I always do.
Half of me wants to take Kyra and run, and the other half wants to tear into the person standing in front of me and see if she bleeds anything human.
“I’m not fighting. I’m setting a boundary,” I say, then I turn back to my mother. “I don’t want you at my games, because you’re a distraction. Take Kyra home.”
My mother’s nostrils flare. “You may think you can cut me off, Dominic, but you can’t. Everything you are, you owe to me. Your talent, your discipline, your… appetite. Don’t forget that.”
“I remember every lesson,” I say, letting my eyes go as cold as hers. “That’s exactly why you need to leave.”
Her hand lifts, palm smooth, nails immaculate, reaching for my chest. For the scars under my shirt. For what she made. I catch her wrist before she can touch me, fingers closing hard enough that I feel the fine bones shift under my grip.
“Don’t,” I say, voice low.
Her expression flickers with fake pride. “Who has you so… agitated, my boy?”
“No one,” I snap too fast, and we both hear it.
Her smile turns cruel, predator scenting blood. “Hmm. Kyra, darling, go wait in the car,” she says in that sweet, honeyed tone that used to mean “get out before you see something you shouldn’t.”
Kyra hesitates, looking between us. “Mom—”
“Now,” she says, not raising her voice, not needing to. Kyra wilts a little, shoots me an apologetic look, and scurries around to the passenger side of their shiny SUV, climbing in and closing the door.
Then we’re alone. Well, us and the ghosts.
“She’s been asking about you,” my mother says, smoothing her hair back like she needs a second to rearrange her mask. “You ignore her. That’s unkind.”
I grind my teeth. “You don’t get to weaponize her against me, Mother.”
“Everything is a weapon if you’re smart enough,” she says calmly. “You should know that. I taught you.”
I see flashes whether I want to or not. Basement light. The metallic tang of bleach. Her hands on mine as she guides the knife. “Steady, Domenyk. Not too deep. We don’t want a mess.” Her eyes bright with approval when I don’t flinch. “Good boy. See? It’s not so hard.”
“Yeah,” I say, now pulling myself back, every muscle in my shoulders coiled. “You did a great job training me to be like you. Gold star. Look how well your experiment turned out.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You’ve put distance between us, but you haven’t changed what you are; today just proved it. You were out there trying to play hero and beast at the same time, and it cost you. I saw you looking for someone in the stands.” Her lips curl slightly. “Who?”
My fingers flex around my keys until the metal bites into my palm. I want to say none of your fucking business. I want to say his name like a curse and a blessing. I do neither.
“Stay away from my life,” I say instead, every word ground out. “Stay away from my games. You don’t get to show up here and act like any of this is yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says softly. “Everything you are is mine. I carved it into you.”
It’s an effort not to shove her. I step back instead, the space between us feeling like a small victory. “You didn’t make me. You broke me and called it training.”
“Semantics,” she says. “You wouldn’t be half the player you are if not for me. You wouldn’t have the discipline. The focus. The willingness to do what needs to be done. It took so much effort to sharpen you into something useful.”
A laugh bursts out of me, harsh and humorless. “Useful,” I repeat. “That what you call it? Sending me after people who pissed off your donors? Teaching me where to cut so it’s quiet? Making sure your little prodigy knew his place?”
“You always did,” she says softly. “On your knees, or on the field. My good boy.”
The term has bile rising in my throat, as she reaches out again and lays her hand flat on my chest.
It’s a light touch, the kind a normal mother might give a son she’s proud of—fingers resting over my sternum, thumb brushing the collar of my hoodie—but my mother is not normal.
My skin crawls, and every muscle in my body locks up. For a second, I’m sixteen again, pressed against the wall of our hallway. I jerk back as if she burned me.
“Don’t touch me,” I say.
Her hand drops, and she rolls her eyes. “Still sensitive?” she asks. “You were always so squeamish about intimacy. I tried to fix that.”
Rage spikes so fast I see white.
If we weren’t in a public parking lot, I’d put my hands around her throat and squeeze until that calm exterior cracks; until she shows something other than smug satisfaction at the ruin she left behind. As it is, I curl my fingers into fists at my sides, and make myself breathe.
“We’re done,” I say. “Leave, or I’ll have security escort you out. We both know you don’t want that kind of attention.”
She tuts. “I’ll see you soon. We have unfinished business, you and I.”
“No, we really don’t.” I step around her, unlock the Charger, and yank the driver’s door open. “Get my sister home, and stay away from me.”
I don’t slam the door, because this car doesn’t deserve my temper. I shut it just hard enough to make the point, start the engine, and pull out without looking back.
My phone stays face down in the cup holder, but I can still hear it vibrating. I don’t check it; I don’t need to see his name after that little family reunion. I know if I look, I’ll want the wrong kind of comfort.
The smart move would be to go straight to the cottage: lock every door, check my messages, maybe call Brendon.
But I’m not feeling smart.
I turn the music up loud enough to drown out the noise, and go do something about the anger in me the only way I ever learned how.