Chapter 41 #3
“That’s it,” he sneers. “That look on your face says it all. You don’t even bother to hide it. Private School Princess.”
“I didn’t have a choice where Nana sent me to school,” Lila retorts, keeping her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her chest.
Seeing that he’s stopped in his tracks, she turns to the chopping board, focusing hard on the onions in front of her.
The sharp fumes sting her eyes as she cuts into one, blurring them with tears.
She tightens her grip on the knife. He still hasn’t moved, and she’s dying to tell him to fuck off, but she bites her tongue.
She knows full well that engaging will only make things worse.
Her uncle’s voice cuts through the silence again. “You’re so stuck-up and prissy, I just want to smack the shit out of you. Ma never did it, but maybe it would’ve done you some good. Then you wouldn’t walk around like your shits don’t stink.”
She looks up just in time to see him leering at her, his eyes roaming in a way that makes her skin crawl.
“At least you grew up easy on the eyes.”
Her face twists in disgust, which earns her a gross smile. She looks back down at the onion and keeps chopping.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
She imagines it’s him she’s cutting down.
“What? You’re just gonna ignore me now?”
His breath is hot and foul as he moves closer, and before she can back away, his hand shoots out, yanking her arm toward him. Her knuckles whiten around the knife as she glares up at him, livid, trying to twist free.
“You mad?” he says, grinning wider, his stained teeth even more repulsive under the suffocating warmth of the kitchen light. “What are you gonna do about it?”
And then she feels it.
A hand cupping her ass—rough and possessive.
Her body locks.
Her mind goes blank.
“Stop!” she chokes, fighting harder now to wrench her arm free, her voice cracking in the tight space of the kitchen. She twists desperately, panic roaring in her ears. The knife wavers in her hand as her heart slams against her ribs, breath coming in sharp gasps.
He doesn’t let go. Instead, his grip tightens until it hurts, his sneer widening as though her struggle is a game.
“How about you stop being a fucking tease? Like mother, like damn daughter. Walking around in that school uniform all the damn time. Do you know how hard it was for me?”
His fingers dig into her flesh. Each squeeze sends a wave of revulsion through her body. Bile burns at the back of her throat as her mind scrambles to block out the sensation—his hand on her, the violation already branding itself into her skin.
“Shit. Fuck. It feels just the same,” he groans.
“Get the fuck off me, you disgusting creep!”
He releases her only to slap her hard across the face.
The sharp crack snaps her head to the side, her cheek instantly burning.
Her vision blurs, a ringing flooding her ears as she stumbles backward.
Before she can process it, his hand shoots out again, fist tangling in her ponytail as he yanks her head back.
“Listen here,” he growls, low and venomous, his breath hot and rancid against her face. “It’s about time you learned how to be nicer to me.”
His grip tightens until her scalp feels like it’s on fire. He jerks her upright, forcing her onto her toes to relieve the pressure. The movement tears a scream from her throat. Her legs thrash, her arms swing wildly, but none of her blows land with any real force. Panic narrows her vision.
She swings the knife.
He jerks his head back, the blade missing him by inches.
Her heart stutters, shock freezing her for half a second, and in that pause, he moves.
Calm. Efficient. He clamps his hand around her wrist and pries her fingers open, one by one.
Her nails dig into the handle, but his strength is relentless.
The knife slips free, metal grazing his skin before it hits the tile with a cold, hollow clatter.
“What’ve you been up to in the big city, huh?” he sneers. “You been a good little whore like your mother? ’Cause there ain’t no way in hell you pulled twenty grand slingin’ plates. So what else you been slingin’, huh?”
“Let go of me!” she screams, clawing at the fist knotted in her hair, desperate to loosen his grip.
“Your mama might’ve thought she’d run far enough away, but word gets ’round quick in these parts.
We all knew what she was doing—spreading her legs for any man who’d give her the time of day, like a desperate bitch in heat.
Even if she wanted to come back, Ma would’ve been too ashamed to take her in. ”
Then, without warning, he snatches her hand and wrenches it downward, forcing it against the zipper of his pants.
“Probably because she missed this so much,” he groans.
The sickening bulge presses beneath her palm.
“Kept looking for it with different men.”
“Let’s see what else you inherited from her,” he growls, his face inches from hers, his body crushing her into the counter.
Lila spits. It lands squarely on his cheek.
For a split second, triumph sparks in her chest.
But it dies just as quickly.
His face twists into something monstrous. Rage flashes in his eyes as he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. Without warning, he swings. His fist connects brutally with the side of her head.
Pain explodes through her skull.
The force sends her crashing down. The room tilts violently as she struggles to get her feet under her. Her head throbs in agony. She braces herself against the counter, her body shaking uncontrollably, fear and pain coiling tight in her gut.
“Stupid little bitch,” he snarls, stepping back, eyes wild with fury.
“Does Nana know?” Lila asks.
Sean’s eyes narrow, then blink. His red, bloated face shifts from rage to confusion. “What are you talking about?”
She swallows hard. “Does she know what you did to her daughter?” she whispers, her voice hollow, emptied of everything but disgust.
Sean’s lips curl into a smirk. “What do you think?” His words drip with mockery. He lets his words linger, the implied message loud and clear.
Then he slaps his knee and erupts into laughter, bending forward and wheezing between fits, clearly amused by her reaction.
“Relax! I’m just messing with ya. That’s what you get for being so stuck up. God, you take everything so seriously, don’t you? All that fancy schooling, all those years shutting yourself away in your room, reading book after book like some fucking nerd, and you still don’t know how to take a joke?”
A joke?
Lila doesn’t believe him. Something deep inside her knows better.
The anger and revulsion that have simmered for years surge upward, a wave she can no longer hold back.
She remembers his hands on her and the way he groped her without a shred of decency.
Every vile thing he has ever done flashes through her mind.
Her trembling fists clench, knuckles bleaching white.
Sean turns his back to her, still laughing, breath wheezing between his teeth as he starts to walk away.
Rage floods her—hot, blinding.
Before she can think, she lunges for the knife on the floor. Her heart hammers in her ears as her fingers close around the handle. In one swift motion, she surges to her feet and charges.
Sean turns at the sound of her footsteps.
Too late.
The knife sinks into his neck. Resistance gives way beneath her hand.
A strangled gasp tears from his lips as he reaches—for her, for the blade, for his throat.
She ignores his flailing hands and drives the knife forward, shoving it deeper before yanking it free with enough force to send her staggering backward.
Blood sprays, hot and vivid, splattering across the kitchen tiles.
He stumbles, gurgling—blood bubbling from his mouth as he tries to speak. The smirk. The cruelty in his eyes.
All gone.
All that’s left is fear.
A horrible, primal fear as he looks into her emotionless face, staring him down.
Sean collapses. His heavy body hits the ground with a dull thud. His eyes are wide, fixed on nothing, and the kitchen fills with the wet, gurgling sound of him drowning in his own blood.
Her back slams against the edge of the counter.
With an unsteady hand, she sets the knife down beside the cutting board before her legs finally give out.
She sinks to the floor, trembling uncontrollably.
Her breaths come shallow and uneven, her mind splintering under the weight of what she has done.
And despite everything, it isn’t Jake, kind and warm like sunshine, who comes to mind. Nor is it her grandmother, the woman who took her in when she was a miserable, malnourished thirteen-year-old orphan.
It’s Max.
With shaky hands, she pushes herself upright and reaches for her phone. Her fingers tremble as she dials his number. The line barely rings once before she hears his voice—deep, familiar.
“Hello?” Max says, his tone carrying a hint of giddiness, as though he’s genuinely pleased she’s the one who finally reached out.
“Max…”
“Lila.” Her name rushes out of him, his tone shifting instantly to concern. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“I… I did something bad,” she whispers. She feels strangely numb.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Max urges gently. “You don’t have to be scared. Just tell me.”
“I can’t,” she says quietly, as if raising her voice would shatter her. She’s so tired.
“Lila, trust me. Please.”
For a moment, she says nothing. Her breathing slows as she listens to the sounds on the other end of the line.
She hears the quiet roll of his chair, the soft rustle of fabric as he stands, and the steady rhythm of his breath.
Then, in a broken rush, she tells him everything: the confrontation with her uncle, the knife, the blood.
Every horrifying detail spills out between sobs.
Max is silent for a dreadful moment.
Has she scared him away?
Then, with the calm composure she has come to expect from him, he speaks, his voice low and steady, almost comforting. “Where’s your grandmother?”