57. Chloe
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHLOE
THEN
TEN YEARS AGO
The sound of screams is becoming my new normal.
Dad’s.
Mom’s.
My own.
They all blend together in a symphony fit for the hell we’ve landed ourselves in.
A fist strikes at the side of my face, pulling a broken sob from my chest.
Agony is a permanent state now, and more than once I’ve found myself craving death.
I want to be strong. For myself and for my baby, but everything feels so hopeless.
Damon has been absent, leaving Salvatore’s most trusted men to do whatever they want to us.
Where Mom and I were off-limits yesterday, today we’re fair game, and I have the blood and bruises to prove it.
I believe Dad when he says he doesn’t have any information about Kingston, because there’s no way he would have let this go on for as long as he has.
He wouldn’t have watched Ralph rape his wife if he had answers.
He wouldn’t watch as Larry stood behind me and dipped his hands beneath my nightgown, dragging calloused fingers over my breasts.
If he knew anything, he would have broken by now. If not from his own pain, then from ours.
Mom has been catatonic since Ralph zipped up his pants and walked out with the promise to come back tonight when everyone went to sleep.
I don’t blame her because I think I’d be the same in her position.
My time is probably coming, but I try not to let myself think the worst.
“Come on, Weaver. Tell us where he is, and we won’t ruin your baby girl,” Pete spits, smearing my blood across my face.
Copper is a permanent fixture on my taste buds now, and I can barely remember a time when the scent of blood didn’t linger in the air.
“I don’t know anything!” Dad shouts. He’s missing teeth and a couple of fingers, the removal of which is the cause for the puddle of vomit beside me.
Knowing what happens down here and witnessing it are two very different things, especially when it’s your own flesh and blood being dismembered.
“You have to know something.”
“I don’t!” he insists.
I steel myself for another punch, my body locking down to brace myself.
But it doesn’t come.
“Everybody out!” Damon’s voice fills the cell, and I’m as relieved as I am terrified of his reappearance.
I keep my eyes pressed closed as they file out, the sound of boots on damp concrete fading the only confirmation that they’ve done as they were told.
Does he know that Ralph visited us overnight?
Does he know that Larry groped me?
Would he care if he did?
The steel door scrapes closed, and I finally force my eyes open. As badly as I would like to stick my head in the sand and never come up for air, I realize that’s not a luxury I have right now.
I’m met with ice-blue eyes staring down at me, Damon just a few feet away.
“What the fuck is this?” he spits out, holding the stick I held with hope for the future just a couple of days ago.
Tears roll down my cheeks. “I only found out after Ronan left. I wanted to wait to tell him in person,” I whisper.
“You’re fucking pregnant!” he roars.
I knew they’d be mad when they found out, but he seems furious. Like the idea that I’ll be the mother of his niece or nephew is the worst possible thing that could happen.
And it probably is to him.
Sound comes from behind him, but he’s standing too close for me to see either of my parents’ reactions.
In another world this would have been a happy moment. A mug that says “World’s Best Grandma” or a little sweater in a box with “Baby Lombardi” knitted into it.
It should have been smiles and happy tears, celebrations and planning.
But it’s none of those things.
“How the fuck could you let this happen?” he snaps, grasping my sore chin between his fingers and forcing me to look up at him.
“I think it was the flu I had last month. I must have thrown up my pill and not realized.” It’s the only thing I can think of because I’m religious about taking my birth control.
Not even because I’m afraid of falling pregnant, but because it helps manage my worsening symptoms. The specialist said things should get better the older I get, the further I get from puberty, but every cycle is worse than the last, and the pill is the only thing that has made any difference to the hell I face for two weeks of every month.
Pregnancy always felt like a nonissue considering the doctors told me my chance of conceiving without intervention was next to none, making the little bean growing inside me a miracle.
His attention drops to my stomach for a beat before coming back to focus on my eyes. “Have they hit your stomach?”
I shake my head. “Only my face,” I whisper.
Some of the tension releases from his shoulders, and for a second I let myself think he’s worried about me.
But I stopped believing Damon cared whether I lived or died a long time ago.
For all I know, this is just another one of his tricks, and I refuse to fall for it.
Not again.
He keeps hold of my face with one hand and reaches behind him for something.
I flinch, half expecting him to produce a gun, but the sight of a bottle of water has confusion washing over me.
His brows furrow at my reaction, but he uncaps the bottle and holds it against my lips, allowing me to drink greedily for a handful of seconds before taking it away too soon.
“You can have more in a minute, but it’ll make you sick if you rehydrate too quickly.”
I nod slowly, my movement still stunted by his hold on me.
He’s so close I can see the flecks of brown in his eyes that I’ve missed so much over the last few years. You can only see them if you’re looking, but they make the icy pools even more enchanting.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
Damon stares down at me for long seconds, his fingers tracing my jaw reverently. “I don’t know.”