68. Lilith
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT
Thirteen Years Ago
I kept my eyes on the page, pretending I couldn’t hear it. Earbuds in. Nirvana cranked loud enough to rattle my skull.
It didn’t help much. It never did.
The words on the page blurred as I tried to focus. Something about a brooding guy with abs and a tragic past, probably named Jaxon or Zane or some other stupid name that sounded like he owned a leather jacket and couldn’t emotionally commit.
I didn’t know why I kept reading this crap. Maybe because romance books were predictable. Safe. No matter how much heartbreak the heroine suffered, you knew she’d get her happily ever after by page four hundred. Meanwhile, in the real world, love was just another way to get your ribs kicked in.
The thumping noise spiked again. Not quite footsteps. Not quite a door slamming. Just… thudding.
I ignored it.
I’d gotten good at tuning it all out over the years—the fights, the bitter silences, the jagged pauses that felt worse than the yelling. I told myself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t my problem. That if I just turned the music up loud enough, none of it would stick.
The thumping flared louder, and I jabbed the volume button, letting the music scream in my ears.
Come as you are… as you were…
I let my eyes skim the page again, reading without really seeing the words. Just holding the book to do something—to keep my hands from curling into fists, to keep my mind from circling back to last night.
He clocks me the seco nd I step into the kitchen.
“Where you been?” Wayne slurs.
He’s drunk. Again.
“Upstairs,” I mutter, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. I keep my eyes down, hoping that if I don’t engage, he’ll get bored.
He never gets bored.
“You think I’m stupid?” His voice sharpens. “Think I don’t know what you’re up to?”
I freeze, glass halfway to the sink. “I’m not up to anything.”
“Bullshit.” His boots scuff against the floor as he steps closer. “I saw what you did.”
I frown, still gripping the empty glass. “What?”
His hand shoots out—fast and hard—and grabs my wrist.
“Hey!” I snap, twisting my arm, but his fingers dig in like a vice.
I barely have time to react before he yanks my arm forward and shoves my sleeve up to my elbow.
And there it is. The mess of red lines crisscrossing my skin. Some still raw, angry, and raised. Others barely there anymore, fading into thin, silvery lines.
Never deep enough to scar. Just enough to sting—enough to jolt my body back into something I could control.
For a second, all he does is stare. Then he laughs. It curdles in my veins.
“You wanna play the victim now?” he sneers. “Poor little Lilith, so sad, so screwed up.” His grip tightens, nails biting into my skin. “You wanna bleed? Is that it?”
“Let me go,” I grit out, twisting my arm again.
“You wanna know what real pain feels like?” His smile stretches wider, meaner. “I can help with that.”
“Get off me,” I snap, but my voice shakes.
His fingers flex, and suddenly he’s dragging me closer—shoving me hard against the counter. My hip slams into the edge, sharp pain flaring up my side.
“You wanna die so bad?” His breath hits my face, hot and sharp and stinking of beer. “Maybe I should show you how it’s done.” His fingers clamp tighter. “Maybe I should slit your wrists. Make it look like you did it yourself.”
Icy cold fear sweeps through every single nerve, capillary, vein, synapse.
“Yeah,” he mutters, smile curling at the edges. “Bet no one would even ask questions.”
He yanks my arm back, and my wounds tear open. A sharp, burning sting rips across my wrist, and suddenly there’s hot, slick blood sliding down my fingers.
“Stop!” I gasp, shoving at him with my free hand, but he doesn’t budge.
“You think I won’t?” His grip crushes tighter, forcing my arm back again, higher, testing how far it’ll go before something snaps.
I panic. I rip my arm back, twisting free just as the glass slips from my other hand and shatters on the floor.
“Don’t touch me,” I spit, backing away fast, clutching my bleeding wrist to my chest.
He doesn’t move right away, just stands there, breathing hard, eyes locked on me like he’s still deciding if he’s finished.
And then his face twists.
“You think you’re clever? Think you’re tough?”
Pain explodes along my cheekbone, hot and searing. For a second, everything blurs. White noise ringing in my ears, the copper tang of blood blooming on my tongue.
I stumble, catching myself against the wall.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” he mutters, snatching his keys off the counter like this was all just a minor inconvenience. “Get your shit together, Lilith.”
And then he’s gone, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
I stay there, pressed against the wall, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Glass glitters across the floor in jagged shards, red smeared through it like something from a crime scene.
I know I should move—clean it up, patch myself up, do something. But I can’t.
I’m stuck there, shaking, replaying his words over and over in my head.
‘Maybe I should show you how it’s done…’
I press my hand tighter over the cut, fingers trembling.
And then I feel it—that prickling sensation that crawls up your spine when someone’s watching you.
I turn slowly, every muscle in my body screaming ‘don’t look.’
She’s standing in the doorway. Evelyn.
Her eyes flick to the blood smeared across my arm, to the mess of glass on the floor, to the red mark burning bright across my cheek.
She stays rooted to the spot. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
I wait for something—anything. For her to rush forward, for her to ask if I’m okay, for her to even pretend to care.
But she doesn’t.
Her gaze lingers on me for a second longer before she turns and walks away. No words. No questions. Just… gone.
I slide down the wall, pressing my back against it like it might hold me together. My arm throbs, my face burns, and I can still taste blood on my tongue.
I don’t cry. I never fucking cry.
I just sit there, staring at the doorway where she stood.
She saw everything.
And she still walked away.
I snapped myself out of it with a few hard blinks. Or tried to at least.
I didn’t know why it had started happening like that.
The memories, I mean. One second I was fine, the next I was somewhere else entirely, stuck in shit I didn’t want to r emember.
It sucked, so bad. Worse than the nightmares, because at least with those, sometimes I woke up knowing they weren’t real.
I fucking hated it here.
I wanted to leave so badly.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
They wouldn’t let me get a job—not one that paid real money. And even if they did, I couldn’t leave Evelyn here alone with him.
He’d kill her. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. And if I wasn’t here to pull him off her, to say something sharp enough to redirect his rage onto me instead, I didn’t know what would happen.
So I stayed.
I knew it was a risk, but I’d been siphoning cash from his wallet.
Just a couple dollars at a time, never enough to make him notice.
It wasn’t much, but it made me feel like I was doing something.
After almost a year, the stash had grown into a small wad of bills, folded tight and hidden inside a hollowed-out book in my dresser.
Hardly life changing, but enough to one day grab Evelyn, walk her out of the front door and never look back.
The thumping kept going, steady and dull, dragging through the floor like a hammer hitting soft wood.
I clenched my teeth and flipped another page.
Louder.
I knew exactly what was happening.
I knew.
And I didn’t care.
I was so damn sick of this.
Sick of playing nurse. Sick of being the one to drag her out of it—to shake her awake, hold her hair back, listen to her mutter promises she’d break a week later.
I was just angry now. Raw and bitter and done.
Evelyn needed me again. But she was never there when I needed her. Never there when he cornered me. Never there when I was patching up bruises with concealer or icing a swollen wrist in the bathroom sink. Never there when I needed someone— anyone —to pull me out of the mess she let grow around us.
But now? Now she needed me.
Again.
And I was supposed to drop everything and clean up her mess like I always did.
I told myself I didn’t care. But my fingers were already pulling my earbuds out, my legs already moving.
I stopped outside her door. For a second, I almost walked away. Almost turned back, crawled under my blankets, and pretended I hadn’t heard a thing.
But then I pushed the door open.
She was sprawle d halfway off the bed, one arm clawing weakly at the sheets like she was trying to pull herself back up.
Her face was twisted, pale and sweaty, dark bruises blooming across her cheek and jaw—ugly, swollen smears of purple and yellow.
Her mouth was streaked with vomit, thin trails of it smeared across her chin and down her neck.
Her chest rose and fell in these awful, shallow little gasps that barely seemed to be keeping her alive.
The thumping was her kicking at the wall, trying to get my attention.
Scratching. Hitching. Struggling.
White pills scattered across the floor like spilled teeth. Some still whole, others half-melted into grimy puddles of spit. The empty bottles lay on their sides, labels peeled halfway off, the warnings printed on them barely readable.
Her eyes found me.
Wide. Bloodshot. Begging.
Her fingers jerked toward me in a desperate, twitching motion like she thought I could fix this. Like I was supposed to come running, like I was supposed to save her.
I couldn’t do this anymore.
“No,” I said, my voice flat and sharp.
Her hand twitched again, and something cold slithered down my spine.
I stepped back.
“I’m not saving you,” I said. “You hear me?” My voice wobbled, but I forced it out. “I’m done. I’m done pulling you out of this.”