Chapter Thirty-One – Kayla
Bentley Sr. pushes off his desk and leans over me.
He sweeps some of my reddish-brown hair behind an ear and lets his fingertips caress my cheek in the process.
It takes everything in me to not shiver in disgust; the slightest wrong movement here means he’ll speed up the process and do what he told Bradford he’d do to me.
I don’t know if trying to stall him will do anything in the end, or if it will only delay the inevitable. Still, as hard and as pointless as it may be, I need to try.
“Why does he need to be like you?” I ask, keeping my voice as soft and hesitant as I can while my eyes remain glued to the floor. If I stay a meek omega, then maybe I can get through this. It isn’t like I have any other defenses at this point.
“Because of everything I already said,” he speaks with a hiss and a shake of his head as he begins to prowl around the room.
“Because this world is full of weak, pathetic men. Society has changed, and not for the better. You omegas and even the betas—you don’t deserve to have the world at your fingertips.
As much as your kind cries out that you are the same as us, you are not.
You are fundamentally different, as nature intended. ”
A man with his beliefs, a man of his age, will never let his opinion change. He’d probably get along great with Jeremy, if Jeremy was born to a rich, well-to-do family like he was. Jeremy loves cutting other people down if it furthers himself, which clearly Bentley Sr. enjoys doing, too.
Two terrible men cut from the same shitty cloth.
“The only thing that’s worse than omegas and betas believing they deserve the world are alphas who are unworthy of the very genetics they contain,” he goes on, baring his teeth at nothing and no one in particular.
“My son being one of them. I can only attribute his weakness to his mother’s side. He certainly did not get it from me.”
He stops stalking around the room when he stands directly in front of me, and he lowers himself to his knees rather well, considering his age. Lowering himself to my level, he grabs me by the chin and forces me to look at him.
“You would not be able to handle one-tenth of what I gave my son when he was younger. Your body wouldn’t be able to live through it, let alone your mind.
” His fingers grip my chin so hard I want to flinch away, but I resist the urge, not wanting to further enrage him.
“It isn’t something I blame you for, given what you are.
A good omega doesn’t need much punishment to learn their place.
Tell me, omega, has anyone ever tried to teach you a lesson before? ”
He doesn’t let me look away, so I’m forced to answer him—though I only do so by nodding my head. My words refuse to make an appearance.
“And I bet you learned from it,” he says, both haughty and superior at the same time. “And whatever you did to earn that punishment you never did again, am I right?”
Again, I nod.
“You know your place, then. Something my son never learned in spite of how often I tried to instill it in him.” He releases my chin and stands, and this time when he begins to stalk around the room, he remains close to the chair I sit in, close to me. Within reach.
He says, “I tried everything to make him a better alpha. I had him genetically tested before he presented, right when he was born. Even before his inner alpha emerged, I tried to get results from him, but every time he would shut down, roll over, and show his belly like some submissive mutt.”
What else was he supposed to do? Children shouldn’t need to learn whatever asinine lessons he was trying to teach. And shutting down, rolling over, and showing his belly? Of course Bradford did that when he was young. He didn’t know anything different.
And then he grew into an adult who had long since lost his spirit. Truly, Bradford would be an entirely different person if his father hadn’t done what he did to him all those years.
The über stops when he stands behind me, and I can’t help but tense up when I feel his hands grip my shoulders.
Those hands of his are large, and though I can’t feel them through the fabric of my shirt, they’re still a dangerous whisper of where this is going to go.
Hands like that are capable of doing so much wrong, inflicting so much pain.
“For so long, I assumed my legacy would be passed down to my son, but lately I’ve come to the conclusion he is beyond fixing.
He is no more an heir to me as a random alpha off the street would be.
” The hands on my shoulders tighten, gripping me so hard I want to cry out.
Fortunately, I’m able to keep the cry of pain inside.
“But I’ll be damned if I hand over everything I worked so hard for to such an ungrateful, weak son. ”
Some people just aren’t meant to be parents.
Just because you’re capable of having a child doesn’t mean you should necessarily pop one out.
This guy? He’s a damn psychopath. Or a sociopath.
Whatever. He is stark mad, and the more he says, the more I realize there’s no possible way I’m getting out of this unscathed.
“Now, the thing with omegas such as yourself, something I’ve come to appreciate when it comes to your kind, is that, under the right instruction, no matter who you are or where you come from, you listen. You learn.”
My breath catches when one of his hands drop to my upper arm, near my elbow.
“For instance, if I order you not to make a sound and then proceed to break a bone, you won’t make a peep. You’ll do exactly as I say, because your inner omega knows precisely who is in charge here.”
The threat of him breaking bones, and making me unable to cry out in pain, is downright sick, and the way he says it makes me think he’s done it before, to other omegas. This man has experience breaking not only his son, but other people, too, and he has the money and the power to get away with it.
Truly, who the hell am I to believe I can walk away from this?
I should’ve known the moment I found myself happy in that house, content, that everything would be ripped away from me faster than I could blink.
A nobody like me doesn’t deserve a happy ending.
They don’t write stories about the forgotten poor.
We’re the ones who go missing, the ones who disappear, and never make the evening news.
He releases his hold on me, moving to the glass on his desk.
His dark eyes stare at me over the rim of it, and before he downs the rest of the amber liquid, he says, “The real question is, how long do you think you’ll last when I start to break you, Ms. Prim?
It is a shame, as you stumbled upon this mess accidentally, but here and now, you must understand you are nothing but a tool for me to use. ”
Not to use, to break. To hurt. To kill. There is a big difference, but to him, it’s all the same.
It’s hard for me to speak, but I manage to ask, “If your son is such a lost cause… why bother teaching him another lesson? Why not just find someone else you can train to be your heir?”
He smirks. “A good question, one I’ve wondered myself more and more lately.
It takes a lifetime of exposure and teachings to create a perfect heir.
I should’ve stopped wasting time on my son decades ago, but I suppose a part of me always thought—always hoped—he would miraculously turn himself around and be the alpha he should be. ”
The über sets the glass down and shakes his head. “And now it’s simply too late. I’m too old. Even if I did find a new heir, I would not have enough time to be certain that my company, my wealth, would be in good hands.”
He pushes off his desk and takes me by the neck. I flinch in spite of myself—his hand wrapped around my neck reminds me far too much of my brother’s. He lifts me up and turns me around, backing me up to his desk and pinning me against it with his body.
“Now,” he growls out, the sound emanating from his chest making me want to shrink away into nothing.
“Enough of my worthless son. Is he really what you want to think about? I could force you to enjoy this, omega—but, a little secret between you and me…” A chuckle comes from him, a sick, twisted sound that’s like nails on an old board.
“…I rather prefer when your kind doesn’t enjoy it. ”
Oh, he’s a sick, sick individual. I want to scream. I want to fight him even though it’s pointless, and there’s no way in hell I could ever overpower him. But at the same time, I’m used to shutting up and taking it.
If he wants me to fight him? To try to escape? If he gets off on it, then I won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t play his game. If I’m going to die here, I’m going to die on my own terms, and this asshole can fuck off if he thinks he’s going to make me scream.
If I’m going to die here, then I’ll die. No amount of fighting it will change the inevitable. I’ll make things as boring and as plain as possible. Bentley Sr. isn’t going to get a word out of me.