My father continues as though nothing happened.
“Aurora, this is Giovanni King,” my father announces.
I push down the surprise and fear that rises. Giovanni seems disappointed by my lack of emotion, darkness glittering in his dark brown almost black eyes.
Not knowing what to say to one of the scariest MC presidents I’ve heard tales of, sitting at the table, I stay silent.
Giovanni just studies me, his gaze leering up and down my body makes me want to turn to dust and fall between the floorboards.
“Make yourself useful and get Giovanni and I a drink,” Marcus snaps when I just stand there.
Knowing my father doesn’t drink water, I pull two glasses and the half empty bottle of scotch from the cupboard.
Filling them with the amber liquid, I resign myself to my fate.
After placing both glasses on the table, I quickly take a step back.
Before I can make it to a safe distance, a hand painfully grips my wrist and yanks. Thrown off, I’m sent sprawled on Giovanni’s lap.
My father, too focused on downing his drink, doesn’t watch as Giovanni’s hand curls around my throat.
“Mmm,” he hums and I stiffen, sitting up straight. I’ve played this game enough times not to move.
His hand holding the knife, opens, letting it clatter on the table.
Giovanni’s hand slowly tightens around my throat, cutting off my oxygen but I don’t struggle.
His hand slips up, under my shirt, under my bra and I fucking pull on that darkness, begging it to take me. But Giovanni leaves me with just enough air to keep me from passing out as he feels around my body.
When his fingers dip beneath the waistband of my jeans, I prepare myself to fight but my father drawls, “You buy it, then you can break it.”
Giovanni’s hand stills as he considers my father’s words. His hand around my throat tightens, making white spots erupt in my vision before he releases me, shoving me from his lap.
I crumble to the floor, gasping for air as the spots dance in my vision before one by one, blinking out.
“Go,” Giovanni orders and I push through the pain, getting to my feet.
I look at my father as I’m walking past only to find him back to studying his glass.
I shut myself in my room, sliding to the floor and this time I can’t keep the pain from breaking through as tears stream down my face.
That night, once I’d crawled into bed and several hours later, I hear my bedroom door open.
I send a prayer to whoever might exist up there when my father brutalises my skin with his fists and I lay there taking it.
I bury all the pain and anger again and again, over and over until I don’t recognise myself.
I wake disorientedly, wetness on my cheeks.
My skin is burning. Is this Hell? Heat sears through me as I pant.
My vision clears and several dark figures above me has me flinching away—turning my face into something soft.
“Rory!” Someone barks.
“Baby, come on, please snap out of it,” another begs.
Baby.
