21
Fuck!
The impulses won again. It was too tempting not to destroy her. I knew she'd be pissed. I love her fire. Fuck! I can't help myself. When she cries. When she's mad.
When she's powerless.
I slam my fist through the drywall.
Just. Like. Him. Those words echo through my mind like a broken record.
My shitbag father.
My phone buzzes on the floor. I snatch it just to find Mortensen calling. Speaking of the useless shitbag of a father. I grind my molars. I wish I could ignore him entirely.
Being his only son, I don't get the luxury of cutting him from my life.
At least, not yet. After graduation I'm done with this shit.
I want nothing to do with his crap anymore.
Not after what he made me do. I used to want to prove myself, but now I want nothing more than to burn down his empire until it's nothing but ash.
I answer the phone with my usual aggressive tone because, fuck him. “What?” He grumbles on the other end. “Come home. I need to speak with you.”
My brows shoot up. I park my ass on the edge of the bed, staring mindlessly at the satin sheets.
My hands run over the fabric. They're still warm from Clara.
They smell just like her. Some rose scented shit.
Fuck, how I want to steal her and use her as my fuck slave.
Using her to fix my fucked up shit sounds like a Goddamn dream.
“Kieran!” He shouts through the phone. My hands thread through my tight curls. “Fine, not staying long. I got shit to take care of.”
I can't keep putting off this Clara shit. Instead of warning her and protecting her, I fucked her senseless and make her hate me.
He scoffs. “Fucking, getting high and drowning in the bottle isn't priority, Kieran.”
“Whose fault is that?” I flout. My tone could cut steel. I slip back on my boots, not bothering to lace them.
He hangs up on me before I make another witty remark.
***
I slam the door closed to my Bugatti La Voiture Noire.
All the money in the world can't erase how fucked Mortensen is.
My boots slam along the gravel drive. Each step sparks anger and resentment inside me.
I should’ve taken something to take the edge off.
Rina, the family housekeeper, opens the double doors.
I don't acknowledge her, per usual; I shoulder past her through the foyer.
My boots echo loudly against the floor. “He’s in his office,” she relays meekly.
I don't say shit. I push the opulent carved mahogany doors open, Aragorn style.
Mortensen is seated in his leather armchair behind his cherrywood desk.
His sandy blond hair is loose over his face instead of oiled back. He doesn't bother looking up.
“Sit,” he commands. I widen my stance and cross my arms. “Nah, think I’ll stand,” I gravel out.
His eyes shoot up from his ledgers. They hold a visceral carnage. A shared hatred we both harbor. “Sit in the damn seat, Kieran!” he spits, losing patience. He turns red faced as his chair scrapes along the hardwood floor. He stands tall, ready to take aim with his words.
Do your worst, Father. I smirk, remaining defiant.
He clenches his fists. “Fine, I'll get right to it. Did you kill that boy?” His eyes burn into my skin like acid.
I tsk, avoiding his question. “Who? Jax?” I play dumb. He steps out from behind his desk, his hands neatly folded behind him. He's turned on interrogation mode.
I scoff, shaking my head. My body falls against the built-in bookcase. “No, why the fuck would I?”
A cold, calculated wry smile builds on his face. “No. I suppose not. You wouldn't have what it takes,” he taunts.
I glower. I enjoy violence, but the opportunity has never required death.
He would like that, though. Following in his sick, fucked up footsteps.
I hide that part of myself. If I go insane, it would only further encourage him to push that much harder.
He wants me to be the monster he created.
No, I won't give him the satisfaction. I rebel.
I fight who I am born to be, because fuck that prick.
I don't dignify him with a response.
He chuckles, loosening his tie. “Tell me, son, why was your bullet found wedged in the back of his skull? The same gun I passed down to you when you were a young boy, hm?”
What the fuck? I don't use the fucking thing ever.
My eyes narrow. “I don't know what you're talking about,” I grit my teeth. He approaches me. Another intimidation tactic. I propel off the bookcase sidestepping him.
“No? Are we playing this game, Kieran? I know it was that fucked up friend of yours. We don't have to do this song and dance,” he continues.
He stalks closer, dissecting me. My feet carry me across the room.
I stop in front of his desk. Everything is laid out in a neat spread.
Perfect and orderly. I despise him and who he has turned me into.
He's a snake in the grass, waiting to strike. I learned from the best though. I shrug. “Could be a robbery, I haven't seen it in ages,” I supply, picking up a paperweight, purposefully being obstinate. He sighs. “I suppose if this is how you wish to play, I shall oblige.”
“I know it was Zain. It would be a travesty if he was implemented,” his voice booms louder behind me. He's trying to provoke me.
I toss the paperweight back and forth between my hands. The metal is cool in my palm. “And how do you plan on doing that?” I say, bored.
He comes up directly behind me. His voice cuts through the silence, right into my ear. “Cut the shit. I don't appreciate the mind games, Kieran. You know as well as I do, I have the authority to do anything I wish. Did you know that loyal friend of yours is harboring a secret?”
I remain calm, keeping my shit together.
Don't take the bait, Kieran. Under the surface I know he's calculating.
I'm well fucking aware Zain killed the fucker.
Jax deserved it, undoubtedly. He was a piece of shit.
A shit stain that needed to be eradicated.
The fucker could have at least given me a heads up he used my Goddamn gun to off the asswipe.
I told him I'd keep Mortensen at bay as long as humanly possible. That timer is about to expire.
“Seems you've got it all figured out,” I chuff, throwing the paperweight back on his desk, letting it disrupt his orderly neatness.
His voice cuts under my skin. “He married his sister. That little slut is his half-sister. Did he not tell you that? The timing of her father’s suicide seems . . . rather timely. Don't you think?”
I whip my head around to face him. His eyes gleam with power.
I’m furious with Zain. One thing I hate is being lied to. He knows that shit, so does Mortensen. I refuse to let his mind fuckery affect me. He's trying to trap me. He stays silent, letting his cruel words sink in. I won't budge.
I lean in and whisper, “If this is your idea of blackmail, Father, you've gotta try harder.” A smirk grows on my face.
I stride past him to the exit. He's going to have to try a lot harder to get me to comply than blackmail with shit he can't prove.
He's got minimal evidence at best. He wouldn't dare let me take the fall to save face.
Nah. It would destroy the Grimshaw name.
Just as I reach the door his guttural voice cuts through the silence, stopping me in my tracks. “Clara Vane.”
My body pulses and my blood boils. Disgust crawls up my skin, layer after layer. He wants to play dirty.
“She's our Offering, you know. I'll be speaking with her privately tomorrow. If she declines, she will lose that scholarship she thinks she earned. Zain thinks himself slick. Marrying her so she cannot be chosen. If Clara accepts, she will be the Void’s personal toy. Just. Like. Her.
Do you remember, Kieran? Do you remember her tears? How you fucked her when she begged you to stop?”
he taunts, pulling memories from the vault of my mind. Memories I kept tampered down.
His words embed under my skin, crawling under the surface.
I'm on the verge of snapping. How dare he bring up the shit he forced me to do.
He wants to watch me fall. He wants to break me down to force me to bend to his will.
He's spent years chipping away at my layers.
Dissecting me from the inside out. I refuse to let him take away the rest of me. I won't be like him.
“What of her?” I reply nonchalantly. I force my gaze to stay trained on the brass door handle.
I glaze over the stamped letter G embedded in the metal.
If I look up to meet his tempestuous gaze, I can’t be held accountable for the fucked up chaos I would cause.
He steps between me and the door. He rips his tie off.
He slams it against the floor. “I know you fixate, Kieran. She's your newest shiny toy,” he throws his hands up and laughs, as if he has it all figured out.
“If you continue to deny your birthright, I will personally fuck her so brutally she'll beg for me to end it. That is, not before I pass her around. Every. Single. Night. Do you think she can handle it? She's so weak and fragile. I will enjoy fucking her into submission. And she will submit.
Do you know why we choose scholarship students?”
He grins wildly. The fire under my skin grows hotter, reaching a boiling point.
The fact he's using mind fuckery to control me is astounding.
His hunger for power knows no limits. “Because they're poor. They are worthless. They are broken and easily malleable. So desperate to be somebody at Grimshaw.”
“Though, you can have your cake and eat it, too. If you want her, claim her as yours. There is a perk to being a Grimshaw. You can have her for yourself if you wish. She can be your temporary plaything, Kieran, until you grow bored, then you can toss her back into the Void for all I care.
All you need to do is follow in my footsteps like you're destined to. You may hate me for the trials I put you through growing up, but it has made you the man you are today. All you have to do is accept your birthright and stop your reckless nonsense. Accept your future.
You will hold the torch one day.” I am not him. I AM NOT HIM.
I take a step forward, invading his space. Heat radiates from my skin. “I am nothing like you,” I snarl, going toe to toe with him.
A wicked smile falls over his face. “Oh, but you are exactly like me, son.”
“I'll never stop until I burn this shit to the ground. Until I watch your world crumble to ash at your feet,” I spit. His face settles. His beady eyes narrow on me. “So be it.”