Prologue #3
'Sure,' Dad said, his gaze flicking to her. 'Because you show good judgment in your company.'
Camilla preened under his praise. 'Thank you, sir.'
She didn’t wait. She ran for the front door. It was a smart move and didn’t leave room for our father to change his mind, which he did often and on a dime.
There was a time when Camilla and I had been allies. I had brief snatches of memory of us hiding from our father when he was in one of his moods or jumping to each other’s defense. Not anymore.
Now, I was alone with the monster. Mom was rarely around in the evening hours unless she needed to give a command performance.
She would take a pill and tune out the world, slipping away from her bleak reality and into a Xanax-fueled haze.
I didn’t blame her in some ways. But in others, I held her wholly responsible.
Because she knew. And yet, she stayed. Forced us to stay.
My father folded his hands in front of him. 'I told you that I didn’t want you spending time with that boy.'
I didn’t speak, simply cast my gaze downward.
'Yet you disobeyed me.'
It wasn’t a question, but this time, I knew he demanded an answer. 'Yes, sir.'
'You’re so smart in so many ways, yet stupid enough to get mixed up with trash.'
My head jerked up. 'He’s not trash.'
A flash of anger—rage—streaked across Dad’s face. 'His father slaughtered over three dozen women, and you want to tie his name to ours? Carrington means something in this town. And I will not have you sullying it.'
The backhand came so fast and fierce I didn’t have a prayer of stopping it. His knuckles hit me right in the mouth, the lips that had, just minutes ago, buzzed from Maverick’s kiss. Now, the coppery taste of blood bloomed.
I stumbled back a step from a mix of shock and the force of the actual blow.
My father had never hit me in the face before.
I’d gotten about a dozen blows to the torso over the years and had been forced to kneel on rice on the floor for two hours when I broke a prized vase at the age of nine.
I’d even been made to sleep on the floor with nothing more than a blanket when I spoke out of turn at one of the dinners where Dad had hosted business associates.
He liked his creative punishments, rarely stooping to physical violence—it was a last resort. But I could see it now: the glassy eyes, hair askew. He was drunk. And his restraint was gone.
'I’m sorry,' I whispered.
I swallowed more words. Let the blood from my split lip fill my mouth.
I didn’t tell him that Maverick Archer was the best thing to ever happen to me.
That he provided me with the only place I felt safe, the only place I truly felt like myself.
I pulled it all inside of me and held it close. A silent vow.
My dad stalked toward me. 'You’re not sorry. You’re a lying little slut. Probably spreading your legs for that killer filth. And I won’t stand for it.'
The punch took my breath and sent me crumpling to my knees. I’d barely sucked in a wheezing breath before his loafer-clad foot connected with my ribs. I swore I felt the crack before the blazing, white-hot pain engulfed me.
Spots danced in front of my vision as a second kick landed, this time somewhere around my kidneys. Blow after blow until one connected with my head, and everything went blissfully black.
Hazy images passed. The art on the staircase. The ornate runner in the hall. The gingham checkerboard of my duvet. But none of them lasted. The darkness claimed me again.
When I woke, it was dark, and my cheek was pressed to the carpet in my bedroom.
Confusion swamped me, but the moment I tried to move, the memories surged, bringing the pain right along with them. Everything hurt. Even my toes.
My phone dug into my hip like a tendril of hope. I forced myself onto my back, letting out a whimper of pain as I did. Breathing through my nose, I hoped I wouldn’t throw up. In a few minutes, the worst had passed.
I moved slowly, tugging at the cell in my pocket and finally pulling it free. The screen was blurry. Concussion? It didn’t matter. There was only one person I could call. One person I trusted to help. One person who might be able to get me out without anyone else knowing.
My fingers fumbled over the screen until I reached Maverick’s contact.
It rang and rang and rang until the voicemail picked up.
I hit end and called again. More ringing and voicemail.
Again.
Ringing and voicemail.
Hot tears flooded my eyes, spilling out and down my temples, into my hair. I managed to type two words. Need you.
But it didn’t matter how long I waited. He didn’t come.
And as the familiar figure stepped into my room, head shaking, letting out a tsking sound, that was the moment I found out my hurt was far worse than lies and broken promises.
It was more than that. It was betrayal. At the hands of my best friend.
And it was when I learned the most valuable lesson of all.