Chapter 1 #3
“It’s done,” she rasps, sliding down a wooden post, unsteady from the lightheadedness. Her eyes screw shut, and she begins to lift her hands above her head. “I need—I need stitches.”
“Go see Maryann,” he orders. “Now. You’re bleedin’ all over my porch.”
Slowly, with a substantial amount of effort and blinding pain, Grace stands. She trudges across the porch, wincing at the soreness in her muscles and the sharp throbbing in her hands.
“One more thing,” Bellamy calls out.
Grace turns her body halfway, her neck craning to look at him. There’s something else now in his hand besides the newspaper—something she doesn’t make out right away. But as she takes a couple of steps closer, her stomach drops.
Because hanging limply in his hand is Vesta’s bridle.
The breath in Grace’s lungs rushes out of her all at once, and she has to reach out to the siding of the house to keep herself upright.
A dozen questions collide in her head, all half-formed and indecipherable.
She can barely think in full sentences, but she manages a croaked “You— Did you— If you hurt her—” as tears begin welling in her eyes.
Bellamy scoffs, tossing the bridle in her direction before turning back to the newspaper. “Pritchet took her into town while you were gone. Got twenty-five hundred for her. Idiot overpaid, you ask me.”
The words hit Grace’s ears, cavalier and final, and her knees wobble, threatening to give out from under her. The world tilts on its axis in an excruciating, permanent way.
Her horse. Her Vesta. Her beautiful girl with those sparkling, ageless eyes and that heart of pure gold.
The best friend she’s ever had, sold to the first person willing to take her off Pritchet’s hands.
Tears begin to fall down Grace’s cheeks as her thoughts snowball, wondering in a flurry of panic if Vesta will be happy wherever she is, cared for and loved the way she deserves.
It’s that—the vision of Vesta being bred over and over again without proper care, being fed the cheapest and worst quality of hay, never being brushed or petted or kissed, that sends Grace over an edge she’s been toeing for the past nine years of her life.
She swallows down a sob and looks at Bellamy through puffy, bloodshot eyes. Her nostrils flare as the words leave her lips. “You fucking bastard.”
The motion of his rocking in the chair stills. His eyes drift upward, away from the newspaper, before he slowly turns his head to look at her. He blinks, then asks, “Come again?”
“You heard me,” Grace growls, stomping toward him, ignoring all the pain that vibrates through her body, fighting the unsteadiness.
“You’re a fucking bastard. You’re cruel, and stupid, and disgusting, and evil.
I’m ashamed to share any blood with you.
Almost ten years of my goddamn life, I’ve been your obedient dog, and you’ve never shown me even a fragment of kindness.
” She’s still crying, but the tears are no longer made of sadness.
They’re angry. Vengeful. She closes in on Bellamy, who leans back in his chair, alarmed.
Her voice is lower and quieter as she says, “Hell was invented for people like you. So, when you finally do the world a favor and fucking die, we can all rest easy knowing you’re rotting down there. Forever.”
Bellamy’s lip curls. “You ungrateful bitch—”
Grace grabs the arms of the rocking chair with her bloodied hands, ignoring the searing pain, and shoves. As hard as she can. The chair wobbles for a split second before crashing to the ground, sending Bellamy tumbling.
He’s grunting and cursing under his breath, struggling to stand and spewing threats at her as he does, but Grace isn’t listening.
She stands over him, watching as he tries and fails to lift himself up, and for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid of him, or afraid of what he might do.
“I’m leaving. I hope this place burns to the ground. I wish to God that I could be the one to light the match.”
Bellamy looks up at her, and his face devolves from panic, pain, and embarrassment into something far more chilling.
A sinister, knowing smile spreads onto his lips, slowly, deliberately.
He laughs then—a wheezing, terrible sound.
Gooseflesh breaks out over Grace’s bloody skin, but she ignores that blaring alarm in her gut and turns on her heel to walk away.
She won’t let him scare her into submission ever again.
His raspy voice hits her ears when she’s nearly off the porch. “You think there’s anywhere you can go that I won’t find you?”
Grace pauses, gritting her teeth. The threats are always severe.
This is nothing new, and she knows from experience that there may be nothing out there for her.
She knows Bellamy can—will—blacklist her name throughout the entire state of Texas if she leaves.
But that fear of the outside—of slammed doors and hunger pains and concrete benches doubling as beds—isn’t scarier than the hard, inescapable truth that waits for her if she relents.
Because if she stays, she’ll die here. Whether by his hand or her own.
“I’ll always find you, Grace,” Bellamy promises loudly. “You can bet on that.” He laughs again, throaty and thick. “I’ll find you, and then I’ll tell the whole world what you did.”
Even with every fiber in her body telling her to stop, to turn around and apologize lest he make good on his promise, Grace doesn’t give in.
She keeps walking.