56. Venetia
A coarse voice grinds against my skull, pulling me from a hazy slumber. I groan and roll to the other side of the bed, meeting the icy emptiness where his warmth should be. I reach out, silently wishing he had moved just a little farther.
But he’s gone.
Burying my face in the pillow, I inhale his scent, the comforting aroma lulling me back to sleep. I’m still exhausted from last night and want nothing more than to spend the day in this bed. But the voice escalates, and the realization sinks like a brick in my stomach. There’s only one man in the world with such a terrifying voice.
Lucas Reyes.
What the fuck is he doing in my house? Although that’s a pretty dumb question, given that my father and he are practically inseparable now. I’m surprised he and West haven’t moved in with us yet.
Rubbing my eyes, I throw the blanket off and head downstairs. My swollen lips and the redness around my mouth are proof of the lingering warmth from our connection, still pulsing through my skin. I don’t know how long we had been kissing, but it felt like hours.
Yet, it still didn’t feel like enough.
I keep a measured pace as I walk down the corridor, each step bringing Lucas’s voice into sharper focus.
“I can’t fucking believe this,” he says, disappointment dripping from his words. “After everything I’ve given you, after everything I’ve built, you dare to act on your impulses again!”
I creep toward the doorframe, my steps silent, peeking into the living room. Lucas faces West, whose palms press against the table, his expression one of surrender. The tension between them is suffocating, thick, and venomous, wrapping the room in a toxic haze.
“I don’t regret what I did,” West replies, calm and confident. “Every single one of them deserved it. From the senator to the last two pieces of shit. I can’t live in a world where those who hurt her share the same air she breathes. I will never stop protecting her.”
Lucas lets out a chuckle, a harsh, grating sound that rasps through his chest. “I thought that na?ve hope of yours was long gone. But look at you, trying to make another girl fall for the piece of shit you’ve always been.”
My heart stumbles, a trapped bird in my chest, as I watch them together. I try to make sense of it, but my mind is a tangled mess of confusion.
“She’s not just some other girl,” West says defensively, flashing a sharp look. “Our wedding is in a few days, and she’s officially going to be my wife.”
His words act like a catalyst for Lucas. His anger erupts like wildfire, consuming him whole, and the room feels as though it’s holding its breath. It’s clear that anything West says sets him off; he doesn’t need a reason to get furious.
“So, what’s your plan?” His voice drips with mocking sarcasm as he spreads his arms wider, a chillingly calm smile spreading across his face. “You’re useless when you’re obsessed, West, and you know it. She’s going to distract you from the job, and I’d rather die than let that happen. I don’t need a whiny excuse for a man in my company while you’re running around obsessed with her.”
“This is more than just an obsession.”
A flutter of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and I bite my lower lip, trying to keep myself from melting and focus on their conversation.
“It’s even fucking worse!” he roars, his face twisted with frustration. “Your marriage was supposed to be fake. You were never supposed to develop any feelings beyond hatred.”
West pushes away from the table, bypassing it as he walks toward his dad. “I don’t understand. We did everything you asked. We helped with your campaign, we played your game, and you’re still angry?”
The air between them buzzes with an unspoken threat. Lucas takes a step closer, and West shrinks back, his eyes darting nervously around the room. My breath catches in my throat, and I find myself gripping the doorframe, tasting the pressure of the impending storm on my tongue.
West’s palpable anxiety spreads over me like a dark shadow as I watch them. My mind explodes with possibilities, a morbid tapestry of scenarios. I force myself to swallow, fighting to quell the rising panic.
“Of course I’m still angry, you fucking idiot. I won’t stand by while you ruin my business over her. You’re completely consumed, and it only keeps escalating! What will you do if someone crucial to my business looks at her wrong? Hm? What then?”
“Then I’ll gouge his eyes out. I don’t give a fuck about who they are or what positions they hold. I won’t let anybody hurt or disrespect her.”
“This!” he snarls, his finger stabbing the air. “This is what I’m talking about! It stops now, West. Or I fucking swear, I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” West’s voice, previously subdued, now rings with defiance. He challenges Lucas, a spark of rebellion igniting in his eyes. “You’ll force me to kill someone close to her, just like you made me do with Amelia?”
The chill that grips my blood is a cold, unfamiliar feeling, and I blink rapidly, struggling to make sense of the unease that takes root in my chest. What the fuck is he talking about?
Who is Amelia?
“I’m not that young, na?ve boy anymore, Dad. Believe me when I say I’ll kill anyone who hurts her. If you even breathe wrong in her direction, don’t be surprised?—”
A gasp catches in my throat as I raise my hand to my mouth when Lucas slaps West across the face. His head snaps to the side, and for a brief moment, the room is filled with a chilling silence. Then, driven by a fury he can’t contain, Lucas strikes again—harder this time—and the sharp crack of the slap echoes through the space. I watch in shock, memories from my past flooding back—fragments that remind me of the times with my mother or Zayden. Just like I once did, West remains unresponsive to the attack.
Come on , I think. Hit him back. Respond. Refuse to let him treat you like this.
But he doesn’t.
Then, the puzzle pieces I’d never expected to fit together snap into place, revealing a horrifying truth.
It was his father all along. The rumors about West fighting with everyone his eyes could spot weren’t true—he wasn’t the one throwing the punches. It was Lucas who kept beating him. I still remember the day we made our way to the airport, how he blasted the music to drown out the sound of his heavy breaths, and how his face was covered in bruises.
And his scars.
So many fucking scars.
Before I have a chance to stop myself, I rush toward them, stepping between them to shield West from whatever comes next. Lucas remains unaware, lost in a fury that clouds his mind. The room grows impossibly stifling, saturated with the stench of blood, sweat, and despair.
When I finally push Lucas away, a wave of relief floods my body. Clarity strikes in an instant, and I take a long, deep breath, trying to ignore the lingering stench of blood in the air. Lucas’s eyes lock with mine, confusion flickering across his face as his brows draw together, unable to understand why I’m stepping in for West. Blood stains his knuckles, but the heavy rise and fall of his chest reveal he’s far from finished.
Jesus Christ. West has endured this for years, taking blow after blow while keeping his mouth shut—just like I once did.
“What are you going to do, Venetia?” Lucas taunts with a smile, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Huh? You think you can protect this piece of shit?”
West’s chest against my back is a constant reminder of his presence, his raspy breathing fueling my rage as I fixate on his father. It ignites like fire, burning hotter than any other feeling. All I can think about is attacking him, tearing into him for every wrong he’s committed.
“Don’t underestimate me, Lucas. If you ever touch him again, I’ll find a way to make you pay,” I vow, and his eyes widen at my threat. “Everyone will know what a tyrant you are.”
A hush settles over the room, broken only by our heavy breathing. I wait for him to turn and leave my house, but he remains rooted to the spot, staring at me as if I’m an alien.
Then it happens so fast that I barely have time to react. His hand slaps against my cheek, sending my head whipping to the side. A fiery pain erupts in my skin, and I clutch at the burn, shock twisting my face.
This time, West doesn’t hesitate. Not when his father has hurt his woman. He charges at Lucas, fists slamming into his face, sending him crashing to the ground. Lucas groans in pain, struggling to get away, but he’s helpless. I can sense West’s confusion in his sloppy movements, the shock overtaking him. It’s clear this is the first time in years he’s fought back against his father.
The horrifying crunch of bones fills the room, blending with the gurgling sound of his father choking on his blood, his agonized moans ringing in the air. West lets loose, fists landing again and again, his rage swallowing him whole.
And I don’t stop him. I don’t want to.
I let him serve justice.
“If you ever think about touching her again,” he growls, gripping his father by the collar of his shirt and lifting him off the ground, “I’ll finish what I started. Now get the fuck out of this house.”
West shoves Lucas toward the front door with force, throwing it open and sending him outside like a lifeless doll before slamming it shut. Then, he hurries over to me, gathering me into his arms. The sensation of his embrace wraps around me like a shield, and I sink into him, pressing my face against his chest, trying to calm the tremors coursing through me.
“You okay?” he asks gently, his voice a stark contrast to the chaos that just unfolded.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my tears flowing freely now—tears that reflect the pain I’ve only just started to grasp, the depth of what West has been through. Slowly, I pull away, my hands instinctively reaching for his. I turn them gently, my heart sinking further as I take in the sight of his busted knuckles. “We need to fix you up.”
“I’m fine,” he blurts out, the worn-out phrase rolling off his tongue like a reflex. “Just a scratch.”
“Still needs attention,” I insist, shifting my weight from one foot to the other under his confused gaze and pointing to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”
I head to the bathroom and rummage through the shelves to gather supplies. When I return, West is sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, a familiar tense scowl etched on his face. His cheek is still flushed from the slap, and a surge of rage floods through me as I think about opening the door and going after his father.
Setting the bandages on the coffee table, I pour some peroxide onto a sponge. I glance at him, silently urging him to bring his hand closer. He hesitates but eventually complies, and as I gently press the sponge to his bloody wound, small white bubbles rise, hissing faintly. He remains still, and the silence between us thickens with unspoken words.
“I should chop off his hand for hurting you like that,” he murmurs, and I notice he’s staring at the side of my face.
“You’ve chopped off enough hands,” I reply, a hint of amusement lacing my voice as I continue to tend to his wounds, making sure no spot goes untreated. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
I swallow hard, hesitant to bring it up, especially since he’s still reeling from the fight. But we’ve been silent with each other long enough, and I need answers. “Who is Amelia?”
His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. I hold my breath, unsure if I’m ready for the answer that’s about to come.
And then he begins to share his story, telling me about the life he had before he turned twelve. That’s when Delilah fell ill, and the tyranny that followed turned his world into a nightmare. He speaks of the years spent in a hellscape, forced to endure things no child should ever experience. My knees weaken under the weight of his words, and I fight to keep my expression neutral, desperate not to make him uncomfortable, even as I feel my control slipping away.
Emotions, raw and unfiltered, wash over me, making my face flush with each new feeling. Once I finish cleaning his wounds, I collapse beside him, sinking into the softness of the cushion. The more he reveals, the more my hands ache with the familiar, ugly urge to tear the skin around my nails. What I’m feeling now goes beyond anxiety—it’s an overwhelming tide of emotion that runs far deeper than just nerves.
It feels… like I’m burning alive beside him, reliving the hell he was forced to endure. Tears escape uncontrollably, sliding down my cheeks in silent rivers of sorrow. My heart aches in unison with his, a shared pain that makes me yearn to hold him tightly, to promise him something I’ve never offered to anyone. I want to reassure him that he will never have to face this alone—that I won’t leave him, not after all we’ve been through, nor with everything still to come.
But I hold myself back, keeping my hands still as he begins to share more about Amelia. He talks about the day his father forced him to make a choice, a decision that etched into him the cruel belief that he is unlovable, a mistake made flesh, and nothing more than a harbinger of death and pain for those who dare get close.
The threat Lucas issued earlier finally clicks into place. He practically warned West that he would hurt me if he didn’t keep his feelings in check. But unlike Amelia, I don’t have anyone. Lucas wouldn’t dare harm my father—his most important business partner—and beyond that, I’m truly alone.
Still, that doesn’t make the situation any less terrifying. Lucas is a deranged psychopath, and who knows what dark thoughts are festering in his mind right now? A narcissist like him doesn’t forget humiliation easily—he’s already plotting his next move.
A wave of worry blossoms in my chest. My mind shifts away from my concerns and focuses entirely on West and the dangers looming over him. With our wedding just days away and Lucas’s campaign gaining momentum, more supporters are flocking to his side. Once his goals are met and we complete the main task he’s given us, there’s no doubt he’ll do whatever it takes to make our lives hell. Blinded by power and consumed by the need for revenge for our disobedience, he’ll show no mercy.
These unsettling thoughts linger, but I choose not to dwell on them. What I truly long for is a moment of peace, away from the constant mental strain of strategizing to outplay this shark. Instead, my attention shifts to the man beside me. He helped me escape the hell I was trapped in, yet he has never glimpsed even the smallest spark of hope.
Though we are survivors with scars, jagged edges, and countless flaws, we see perfection in each other. I’ve found peace in his insanity, just as he has in mine.
When he finishes sharing his story, silence falls between us. His eyes are cast down, and his expression is a mask of indifference. But I know better—beneath this mask, raw emotions struggle to surface, yearning for acknowledgment, for acceptance, for a love that sees him as he truly is.
He shifts uneasily, his tense posture a silent plea for solace. I reach for him, not with a demand but with a gentle offering. My hands cradle his face, drawing him closer, and my gaze, soft and understanding, urges him to meet my eyes.
“Look at me,” I whisper gently, running my thumbs across his cheeks. He folds into my touch like a snowflake melting in warm hands, though he’s still reluctant to meet my gaze. “You deserve better, West.”
“That’s fine,” he says, attempting to pull away from me, but I tighten my grip, holding him steady. “You don’t need to pity me, Netia. But I appreciate your concern.”
“I’m not pitying you,” I protest. He tries to retreat into his thick, bulletproof cocoon, unaware that I would never exploit his vulnerabilities against him again. “I’m telling the truth. You were just a child?—”
“So were you,” he interrupts, wrapping his hands around my wrists. “I can’t stop thinking about that. And to be honest, I want to kill your father.”
I let out a chuckle, surprised by how misplaced it feels in response to his words, though I don’t feel guilty. I know he won’t judge me for it. “After what you’ve told me, I want to kill your father, too. Does that make us a bad couple?”
The corners of his lips twitch, forming a small smile. “It makes us a perfect couple, baby girl.”
We both laugh, our foreheads meeting softly, a silent spark of connection between us. The silence that follows is a gentle canvas upon which I paint a truth. “You’re not a monster, West. You’re my hero, remember?”
He lets out a shaky breath, and I can feel the tension in every fiber of his being easing with each passing second. He looks at me, a hint of awe in his eyes. “How,” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “did you manage to strip away my defenses so effortlessly?”
“You’ve chipped away at my deepest fears, letting them spill into the light. I want to do the same for you.”
The world shifts, a kaleidoscope of possibilities unfolding before us. We are no longer prisoners but creators, our arms entwined—a symbol of the reality we will build together, brick by brick.
A reality where neither of us will feel judged, scared, or alone.