Chapter 8
Eight
CADE
My special delivery arrived today.
Thank fuck Dad never questions my online spending— it's his way of apologizing for everything he overlooked. Kind of ironic, seeing as living in denial was a major part of the problem.
Sprawled on my back across the bed, I spin the package between my pointer fingers, tracking the fan blades on their endless cycle round and round. Circles that’ll never touch the ceiling. Never make progress. Only repeat the same path for eternity.
What a miserable existence.
My stomach growls.
Control, Cade. The distorted voice of her ghost whispers. I know it’s hard, but you can’t let it win. Don’t let it take over.
I sit up and push the ends of the little cardboard box in, lifting the tape. Tearing it off. Crumbling it in my fist until the sharp edges indent my palm.
Distractions help.
Like Andrea.
Initially, my intentions were cruel.
Arguably, they still are.
My nature demands to corrupt— to yank back the curtain on the lies people like her father feed into. To beckon her into a world of cold truths.
Turns out, I hadn’t needed to.
She met me there on her own.
Verbally sparring with her has become the highlight of these monotonous days.
Mornings aren’t as dreaded knowing as soon as I enter the Parish Hall, she’ll be there, waiting to swap quick-witted comebacks, flirtatious one-liners, and unfiltered opinions.
Impulses are subdued by stimulating conversations that flow effortlessly between us.
She’s an unexpected, refreshing dose of intelligence and complexity that’s severely lacking in this dismal world.
Though my stepbrother doesn't seem to be a fan of our blossoming… friendship.
Sebastian sees what Pastor Sinclair wants him to: An ideal, pure young woman of faith. A symbol of a modern-day Mary, piously serving her God without question.
But I see her: a girl at war with the mold she’s been forced into, clawing at the painted cellophane mask wrapped tightly around her face, smothering her screams as she thrashes against the wire mesh encasing her.
Released from the chains of religious influence, she’d flourish.
And so would Sebastian.
If only he’d accept that his precious faith was designed to subdue the masses into compliance.
Religion is a weapon. A fantastical, emotionally manipulative narrative used by generations of corrupt, narcissistic men claiming to ‘speak’ on behalf of an invisible, all-seeing entity called ‘God’ who dictates black and white morality to keep followers in line.
It serves to push agendas that target the vulnerable and naive to secure power and wealth.
Bottom line: it’s a fucking cult.
So, I’ve taken it upon myself to open his eyes— for purely selfish reasons, of course.
Sliding off the bed, I pad out of my room, package tucked under my arm. My footsteps make no sound on the stair runner, my fingertips skating along the railing as I descend and head toward the kitchen.
The silence in this house is stifling.
Dad and Candice went to some art function for FMU an hour ago; they won’t be back until after midnight. Within minutes of them leaving, Seba took off on his nightly run, abandoning me with my thoughts.
A very dangerous thing.
Because when alone with this inextricable black tar woven through my DNA, heeded warnings, promises of punishment, and embedded shame melt away.
It’s taken hold of you…
Her voice fades into a distant echo as soon as I see Sebastian.
Heaving breaths bounce off the counter he splays his hands on, rivulets of sweat carving paths beneath the gold cross pendant resting against his sternum, between his pecs, through a dusting of chest hair as they merge into the valleys of his abs and collect on the waistband of his gym shorts.
His head turns.
Lips part.
My stepbrother’s eyes sweep my frame, bare except for a pair of wrinkled sleep shorts, lingering on my thighs for one… two… three—
Back to his fingers pressing into the cool marble.
I smirk.
“Have a nice run?”
He grunts.
Sauntering past his averted gaze, I open the fridge to a wash of fluorescent light and cool air. The weight of his stare lands between my shoulder blades. Slides down the curve of my spine. Lower. My nipples tighten. Sebastian's pants roar in the quiet kitchen.
“I don’t get the appeal of it.” I grab a container of hummus and elbow the fridge closed, setting the package down on the island across from him. His attention returns to his hands.
“Of what?”
Popping the lid off the hummus, I shrug. “Of running.”
He shakes his head, droplets of sweat flinging from the ends of his hair.
“It’s conditioning.”
“Seems more like torture.”
I remove a plastic bag from the package. Tear it open in one long strip. Satisfying.
Finally, his head snaps up.
Brown eyes widen in horror as I pluck out a wafer.
And swipe it through the hummus.
Smoldering fury erases his shock.
“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?”
My brows knit. “I’m having a snack?”
The vein in his temple pulses as he glares at the unblessed sacramental wafer pinched between my fingers.
I blink at him, innocent as a lamb. “You’ve been on my ass all week about eating. I’m just taking your advice.”
His fist slams on the counter.
“You’re fucking sick!”
Whistling under my breath, I mutter, “Dude, chill. They're just crackers.”
White knuckles dig into the countertop, his breath hitching on a bitter laugh. “This is funny to you, isn’t it?”
At my blank stare, he scoffs, straightening to his full height. “You’ll do anything for a reaction, good or bad, and you know what that tells me? You’re desperate for attention. It’s fucking sad.”
My molars ache from how hard my jaw clenches.
He backs toward the archway, grimacing in disgust. “So fine, play your games if it means you’ll finally feed yourself.” Then, under his breath, “Fucking demon.”
Running water rushes in my ears.
Demon.
Stings my eyes.
Demon.
Fills my nose.
Demon.
My mouth stretches— a drowned scream.
Demon.
My lungs burn— too much pressure.
Demon.
My head pounds— it’s gonna burst.
Demon.
The hand moves from my skull to my arm.
Gasping, I rip away.
Stumble.
My back slams into something cold and metal: the refrigerator. The present returns to me in pieces. White tile. Dark wood cabinets. Nautical decorations. Our new house. In the kitchen. With…
Sebastian.
He reaches for me—
I flinch.
He freezes.
I hate the concern in his eyes. The pity beneath.
“Never call me that again,” I rasp.
The shaking won’t stop. I need to get the fuck out of here.
Darting past him, I haul my ass upstairs. The hallway sways; my vision blurs. Unsteady legs carry me into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting our rooms. I lock his side before crumbling in front of the toilet to vomit all the water in my stomach.
Except when I pry my eyes open, it’s only yellow bile.
I retch again.
Each shuddering breath makes ripples in the bowl. Jaw chattering, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and scoot across the tile until my shoulders rest against the cabinet.
My eyes close.
Her face blooms.
Black tears stream down her gaunt cheeks, mouth moving to words I can’t hear over the roar of my pulse. But I know what she’s saying. Over and over and over.
“I know, Mom,” I whisper. “I couldn’t save you either.”