29. Luna
LUNA
Ifind Father locked away in his study, the stench of booze overpowering wood polish.
My lips purse as I take in the room—the overturned whiskey bottle, the slouch of Father’s posture, the laptop open and abandoned on his desk, screen dark, untouched. I don’t let my gaze linger.
The whiskey stench grows stronger as I storm toward him. He leans over the armrest of his chair like a drunk too intoxicated to stand, and it only makes my nostrils flare.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap, half tempted to slap the glass out of his hand.
With a swirl of his drink, he sighs. “You’re here to ask me what I’m doing? I shouldn’t be surprised…”
I let out a shaky exhale while flexing my fingers. When I speak, I enunciate every word. “What did you make Thorne do?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. Instead, he glares like I’m the enemy. Like I’ve wronged him beyond belief instead of him sabotaging my every move.
I hate him.
It isn’t the first time the immature thought has come to me, but it’s never been so strong. The flash point of alcohol has never seemed so interesting.
After setting his drink on the floor by his chair, Father stands. His clenched jaw reveals anger that seems inappropriate for a man who always gets his way.
“Thorne and I are in agreement. It was time to speed up your plan, so I had him begin the mating process with the whores. Apparently, this upset your lover, and he interfered. Which, to be perfectly honest with you, my sweet, was a relief to Thorne and I both.”
Begin the mating process…
I look over Father’s head while trying to understand what would possess him to do such a thing. What hatred must he have in his heart to sacrifice the future of our people just to spite me?
My knees wobble while I try to suck in full breaths. “You had them raped?”
“Mated. That’s what you brought them here for, yes?”
My hand pressing to my forehead, I shake my head the slightest bit. Not an answer. Just a reflex.
“Why would you do that?” I drop my hand. “You waited until I left just so I couldn’t object. Why, Father? Why are you…”
My words trail off as he pulls a thin slip of paper from his pocket. Blood drains from my face as I recognize the check I wrote for Sawyer—thirty million dollars to his mother’s foundation. Thirty million of my father’s money.
He holds it up for me to see. “Persephone brought this to me this morning. She thought I might find it interesting…”
“It’s a scrap of paper meant to manipulate our ally, and it worked. Sawyer has been compliant ever since I gave it to him.”
Father hums as he nods. “Except for today, when he stabbed your mate in order to interfere with a sacred ceremony. Your mate…” Father’s brows rise. “Whom you show no concern for. You should be demanding that swine’s execution, and instead, look at you.”
He scoffs as he rips the check in half, then again and again until small pieces litter the rug.
“You claim your concern is for our people, but your only concern is for the outsiders who would have us burned alive if given the chance. You’ve betrayed me.
You’ve betrayed your mate. You’ve betrayed yourself. ”
He tosses what’s left of the check at me, a thirty million dollar bribe fluttering like snow. I use them like flower petals to garnish my path to him, my steps slow and calculated. I can feel my face harden while my eyes ignite.
For a long moment, we just stare—me, contemplating my life; him, daring me to speak.
I’m not like him. I don’t lose myself to my emotions. I think through my actions. I consider my options.
But I must be my father’s daughter deep down.
Because I make a choice so illogical, it is nothing if not ruled by emotion. My gaze moves to the laptop on his desk, the only computer in the Shadow Sanctum not being monitored…
Earning Sawyer’s forgiveness is hardly an influence.
“Only the weak are wounded by betrayal. The strong adapt.”
I let my gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate, before shaking my head. “I’ve never seen you adapt to anything in your life. You will die having lived the same day a thousand times, your every move made in the shadows, never in the light. You’re a weak, pathetic little man.”
For a moment, he just stares, his lips pinched, his eyes wide with both surprise and fury. I know the hit is coming when his face contorts, but I don’t move a muscle as his hand rises.
The blow of his knuckles across my cheekbone sends me to the floor, and a sharp pain shoots across my face. It dulls into a throb as heat rises to the area, the swelling setting in immediately.
I don’t make a sound. I don’t move. I just stay perched on my forearm and let my hair hang in my face while I stare at the floor.
“You ungrateful little bitch.” He rears his foot back and slams it into my side. The kick knocks me onto my back, and my hand covers the rib I’m sure is cracked.
“After everything I’ve done for you.” He kicks me again, shifting my weight.
“After all the authority I’ve given.” Another kick, this one harder than the last.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I whimper in my most pained, most pathetic voice. I try to force tears through my hatred, but he must have taught me too well because they won’t summon for him. “Please, Father. Please. I was only angry.”
He kicks me some more. In my stomach. In my ribs. Once in my face, sending blood rushing from my nose and loosening my front tooth. I try to press my tongue against it to make it fall out and even consider banging it against the floor just to finish the job.
He kicks me while I’m down—low-hanging fruit for his fragile self-worth. Feeding off of the vulnerables’ tears, basking in the praise of others. He demands not only respect and loyalty but adoration, and never does it occur to him that worthy men choose humility.
But I should thank him. Those with the largest egos are easiest to fool.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I cry, forcing my breaths to shake, faking whimpers the same as I had during my time with Sawyer.
In truth, this is where I learned to cower. The moments it was best and the moments to remain hard as stone.
When Father teaches, you become a pupil. You do as he says. You please him in every way he wishes. You take every opportunity to create goodwill.
When Father punishes… He wants you to feel pain. He needs you to feel pain.
So, you feel it. You whine. You limp. You say the things that give him permission to hurt you the way he desires.
And later… His guilt will reward you.
Father steps back, his anger just barely easing. “Get up. Don’t be pathetic.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I stutter, pressing my palms to the floor and pushing myself a few inches before collapsing with a mewl.
“Get up,” he growls with a kick so hard it propels me onto my back. I cry and pretend to try to lift myself up. This time when I don’t succeed, he just sneers, his lip curling in disgust. He barges from the room and slams the door on his way out.
When he's gone, I let my body relax, taking a deep breath, eyes closed, facing the ceiling. When I open my eyes, I force myself to a sitting position. Pain radiates throughout my ribcage. I groan as I stand but don’t allow myself to hunch.
Blood nearly blends in with the maroon on his ugly rug when I spit and roll my shoulders back. Maybe the Seraphs won’t see it. Maybe it’ll linger, my filth added to the vileness of this room. The only space in the house I deem unsalvageable.
Biting my cheek against the pain, I go to his laptop.
His password is my name, my birth name, same as it’s always been. But I don’t feel love as I once did logging in to this computer. I feel possessed.
My lips thin as I start to type. I don’t have a wealth of time, but he won’t come back for at least a half hour. Not until he can assure himself I’m gone.