Before I have a chance to stop myself, I rush toward them, stepping between them to shield West from whatever comes next. Lucas remains unaware, lost in a fury that clouds his mind. The room grows impossibly stifling, saturated with the stench of blood, sweat, and despair.
When I finally push Lucas away, a wave of relief floods my body. Clarity strikes in an instant, and I take a long, deep breath, trying to ignore the lingering stench of blood in the air. Lucas’s eyes lock with mine, confusion flickering across his face as his brows draw together, unable to understand why I’m stepping in for West. Blood stains his knuckles, but the heavy rise and fall of his chest reveal he’s far from finished.
Jesus Christ. West has endured this for years, taking blow after blow while keeping his mouth shut—just like I once did.
“What are you going to do, Venetia?” Lucas taunts with a smile, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Huh? You think you can protect this piece of shit?”
West’s chest against my back is a constant reminder of his presence, his raspy breathing fueling my rage as I fixate on his father. It ignites like fire, burning hotter than any other feeling.All I can think about is attacking him, tearing into him for every wrong he’s committed.
“Don’t underestimate me, Lucas. If you ever touch him again, I’ll find a way to make you pay,” I vow, and his eyes widen at my threat. “Everyone will know what a tyrant you are.”
A hush settles over the room, broken only by our heavy breathing. I wait for him to turn and leave my house, but he remains rooted to the spot, staring at me as if I’m an alien.
Then it happens so fast that I barely have time to react. His hand slaps against my cheek, sending my head whipping to the side. A fiery pain erupts in my skin, and I clutch at the burn, shock twisting my face.
This time, West doesn’t hesitate. Not when his father has hurthiswoman. He charges at Lucas, fists slamming into his face, sending him crashing to the ground. Lucas groans in pain, struggling to get away, but he’s helpless. I can sense West’s confusion in his sloppy movements, the shock overtaking him. It’s clear this is the first time in years he’s fought back against his father.
The horrifying crunch of bones fills the room, blending with the gurgling sound of his father choking on his blood, his agonized moans ringing in the air. West lets loose, fists landing again and again, his rage swallowing him whole.
And I don’t stop him. I don’t want to.
I let him serve justice.
“If you ever think about touching her again,” he growls, gripping his father by the collar of his shirt and lifting him off the ground, “I’ll finish what I started. Now get the fuck out of this house.”
West shoves Lucas toward the front door with force, throwing it open and sending him outside like a lifeless doll before slamming it shut. Then, he hurries over to me, gathering me into his arms. The sensation of his embrace wraps aroundme like a shield, and I sink into him, pressing my face against his chest, trying to calm the tremors coursing through me.
“You okay?” he asks gently, his voice a stark contrast to the chaos that just unfolded.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my tears flowing freely now—tears that reflect the pain I’ve only just started to grasp, the depth of what West has been through. Slowly, I pull away, my hands instinctively reaching for his. I turn them gently, my heart sinking further as I take in the sight of his busted knuckles. “We need to fix you up.”
“I’m fine,” he blurts out, the worn-out phrase rolling off his tongue like a reflex. “Just a scratch.”
“Still needs attention,” I insist, shifting my weight from one foot to the other under his confused gaze and pointing to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”
I head to the bathroom and rummage through the shelves to gather supplies. When I return, West is sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, a familiar tense scowl etched on his face. His cheek is still flushed from the slap, and a surge of rage floods through me as I think about opening the door and going after his father.
Setting the bandages on the coffee table, I pour some peroxide onto a sponge. I glance at him, silently urging him to bring his hand closer. He hesitates but eventually complies, and as I gently press the sponge to his bloody wound, small white bubbles rise, hissing faintly. He remains still, and the silence between us thickens with unspoken words.
“I should chop off his hand for hurting you like that,” he murmurs, and I notice he’s staring at the side of my face.
“You’ve chopped off enough hands,” I reply, a hint of amusement lacing my voice as I continue to tend to his wounds, making sure no spot goes untreated. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
I swallow hard, hesitant to bring it up, especially since he’s still reeling from the fight. But we’ve been silent with each other long enough, and I need answers. “Who is Amelia?”
His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. I hold my breath, unsure if I’m ready for the answer that’s about to come.
And then he begins to share his story, telling me about the life he had before he turned twelve. That’s when Delilah fell ill, and the tyranny that followed turned his world into a nightmare. He speaks of the years spent in a hellscape, forced to endure things no child should ever experience. My knees weaken under the weight of his words, and I fight to keep my expression neutral, desperate not to make him uncomfortable, even as I feel my control slipping away.
Emotions, raw and unfiltered, wash over me, making my face flush with each new feeling. Once I finish cleaning his wounds, I collapse beside him, sinking into the softness of the cushion. The more he reveals, the more my hands ache with the familiar, ugly urge to tear the skin around my nails. What I’m feeling now goes beyond anxiety—it’s an overwhelming tide of emotion that runs far deeper than just nerves.
It feels… like I’m burning alive beside him, reliving the hell he was forced to endure. Tears escape uncontrollably, sliding down my cheeks in silent rivers of sorrow. My heart aches in unison with his, a shared pain that makes me yearn to hold him tightly, to promise him something I’ve never offered to anyone. I want to reassure him that he will never have to face this alone—that I won’t leave him, not after all we’ve been through, nor with everything still to come.
But I hold myself back, keeping my hands still as he begins to share more about Amelia. He talks about the day his father forced him to make a choice, a decision that etched into him the cruel belief that he is unlovable, a mistake made flesh, andnothing more than a harbinger of death and pain for those who dare get close.
The threat Lucas issued earlier finally clicks into place. He practically warned West that he would hurt me if he didn’t keep his feelings in check. But unlike Amelia, I don’t have anyone. Lucas wouldn’t dare harm my father—his most important business partner—and beyond that, I’m truly alone.
