It was late afternoon, and the breeze was cooling against Cecil’s skin. Too bad he couldn’t have stayed out and enjoyed it. He had shit to do.
Sighing, Cecil turned the knob of the door in front of him and pushed—it creaked loudly. The noise made him wince. There was no doubt in his mind that the man inside had heard. Not that his father wouldn’t hear his heartbeat the minute he walked in.
Hiding when surrounded by immortals was almost impossible. At times, Cecil couldn’t help but think that the only way to be completely free was to abandon everything. Skipping right to the end seemed better than wasting time trying to figure out how you were going to get there. Considering immortals didn’t die from old age…well, it took a long fucking time.
Luckily, this was not one of those times. He was actually in a good mood. Today was the day he had been waiting for. Cecil had held out, and finally, he would be free. He was finally eighteen. Things would get better—they had to. Hell,it sure couldn’t get any worse. At least, Cecil hoped it wouldn’t, as that would suck.
“So, you’re finally home, boy,” his father sneered loudly from somewhere further inside the decrepit house.
Cecil would never call this place home. It was a place for someone to run away from, a place Cecil avoided until either the stench of his unwashed body or his hunger became too much. Or until even the lowest of men wouldn’t bother with him. No one wanted to be near someone who smelled like a trash can.
He shuffled across the threadbare carpet into the living room and came face to face with his father, Ernest Baxter.
Ernest wasn’t a tall man, only about five foot ten. There was nothing special about him; his features were bland. However, with his bloodshot blue eyes, scraggly black hair, and unkempt beard, Ernest honestly looked like he spent more time on the streets than Cecil did—a perfect hobo impersonation.
His father wasn’t exactly fat—for an immortal, getting fat took a lot of effort—but the man didn’t have much muscle mass.
That, of course, didn’t stop Ernest from trying to prove how much of a big strong man he was. Not that his father knew how to fight, he would probably lose against most opponents. But as Cecil was only five foot four and about a hundred pounds, he wasn’t one of those.
Staring into his father’s beady little eyes, Cecil allowed himself one last act of defiance—he let the bastard see how much he hated him. It was stupid. Judging by the scowl on his father’s face, and the vein popping on his forehead, the man was pissed off enough already.
Though…Ernest didn’t really show any other emotions around him, so it was nothing new. Because, apparently, Cecil’s entire existence angered him.
Whatever, it didn’t matter. Cecil needed to show his father that he would never completely break him—he would never give in.
When the man backhanded him, Cecil barely flinched. The cry of pain his father wanted to hear never came. And when blood began to drip from his split lip, he did nothing to wipe it away.
It wasn’t like it didn’t hurt—it did. But he had expected it. Cecil was used to it.
“What? Nothing to say?!”
With his hands clenched into fists, he looked away. God, was there so much Cecil wanted to say, but he remained silent. What would come out of his mouth would only play into Ernest’s sick and twisted games. Cecil had learned years ago that the man enjoyed beating the crap out of him. His father would use every word Cecil spoke to justify what he was doing.
Because he was looking away, Cecil wasn’t prepared when his father’s fist connected with his stomach. Cecil let out a single gasp and doubled over. Swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, he ignored the pain, straightened up, and glared.
“I’m talking to you, boy! You’ve been gone for two fucking weeks. And ya know what, you stupid whore, I found out exactly what you’ve been up to.”
Cecil’s heart stalled in his chest. Whatever the man thought, wrong or not, it would not end well for him. “I don’t know what you're talking about,” he stated vacantly.
When his father pulled his arm back, Cecil’s hands instinctively went up to protect his face. Still, the force ofthe hit had him knocking into the wall and falling to the floor.
“Don’t you lie to me!” Ernest screamed.
Cecil smirked—fuck it, no matter what he said now, he was in for some pain. “I’m not. I really don’t know what you are talking about. Though…you’re drunk most of the time, so I usually don’t,” he sneered defiantly.
“What’d you just say?” Ernest growled.
“I called you a drunk. Oh, what a pity!” Cecil cried dramatically, and then deadpanned, “It seems your hearing is going the same way as your brain cells. Of course, you didn’t have many brain cells to begin with, so it wasn’t a big loss.”
“You’re going to regret talking to me like that!” his father snapped.
“Why? What are you going to do? What more could you possibly do to me?” Cecil laughed. His laugh had come out a bit high in pitch, and rather than mocking, as he had intended it to be, it had sounded more hysterical.
“Boy, you have no idea. And you know exactly what I’m talking about. You're just like your mother, a useless whore. It was only a matter of time. Well, since you are so willing to open those pretty little legs of yours, you’ll have no problem with what I have planned.”
“W-What?”
The baby in Sin’s arms giggled when he tickled his little belly. Prince Silas was adorable, with his chubby cheeks, curly white hair, and large violet and gold eyes—the same color as his birthing father.
