“You…figured?” I spit.
The cigarette. The way he kept his back turned. The way he didn't even flinch when I screamed for him.
I knew it, but hearing him say it so blatantly makes something ugly claw up my throat.
“You stood there and watched.” My voice shakes. My fingers twitch at my sides. The anger bubbling in my chest burns hotter than the fear ever did.
Mark exhales slowly, leveling me with that look of his. Thedisregard.
“It's going to cause me problems, Skye,” he says.
I stare at him. Speechless.
A sharp laugh breaks from my throat before I can stop it—hollow, bitter, the sound of a woman who has officially lost all remaining fucks.
I’m empty inside. Truly fucking empty.
“Problems?” My voice is raw, cracking at the edges. “I killed a man to save myself, andyou'reworried about yourproblems?”
Mark exhales again. Slower this time, like he's being forced to bare with me.
“You don't get it,” he mutters. “You never fucking get it.”
“Oh, I get it,” I snap. “I get it just fine, Mark. You let him do what he wanted because it made your life easier. You stood there and smoked while I begged for your help. And now you're pissed because I ruined your plans?” My voice rises, sharp and shaking. “Because I fought back? Because I lived? In my fucking house?”
Something shifts in his posture. A new kind of stillness.
“Your house?” he echoes. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “It'smyhouse, Skye. You might have gotten it from your inheritance,but everything in here that you see? It’s mine. It will always be mine.”
“You wish, you piece of shit,” I grind out.
I've never insulted Mark like this. But tonight, the mask is gone. And I don’t care what happens next.
Everything about this house belongs to me. My great-grandfather built it with his own two hands. His blood, sweat, and tears are imbued into the very wood, the foundation, every nail and brick. This house isn’t just mine—it’s a part of my family, my history.
Mark has no claim to it. No matter how much he thinks he does.
“What?” I throw my hands up. “You made me your housewife and decided to be the sole breadwinner, and suddenly that means you own everything? What’s next? My soul? MY fucking cunt for you to share with whomever?”
He flinches. But it’s not a good flinch. He looks like I slapped him and he wants to slap me back.
I don’t fucking care.
“You'd be no one without me, Skye,” he breathes out. “You know how much I've done for this. For us.”
“Yeah? Like what?” I step into the pool of blood, watching it soak into my socks. “Please, Mark. Enlighten me with your male provider wisdom.”
I’m smiling. Maniacally so. And there’s no softness in me anymore. Only rage. Burning rage.
His voice drops to an eerily soft whisper. “You think you’d still have this house if it weren’t for me? You think those lawyers would’ve just let you keep it? You think the debts your daddy left behind would’ve magically disappeared?”
My smile drops. Goddamn it. A reaction. I hate giving him reactions.
Mark sees it, and his mouth curls—not into a smirk, not into a sneer. Something worse. Something dangerously close to pity.
“I made sure you didn’t lose it all,” he continues, taking a step closer. “I made sure you weren’t out on the street like some pathetic orphan with nowhere to go. I handled things, Skye. I took care of you.”
Another laugh crawls out of my throat before I can stop it. A broken, bitter thing.
