Then a hand reaches under the bed, grabs my hair, right up near the elastic, and drags me out from underneath.
The shock of the pain is exquisite. A thousand hairs being torn from their roots, all screaming in symphony. A discordant tune. Fingernails on a blackboard in B minor.
I claw at him, forgetting who he is, who his father is, in the frantic need to get free. Panic at being caught elevates my senses until I’m close to fainting.
I kick out and strike the bed, sending a wave of pain up my toes.
Good one. Miss Uncoordinated strikes again.
He releases his grip, still holding onto my hair but not tugging at it, not dragging my entire body along like it’s a handy rope affixed to the bow so strangers can reel me closer.
I lie still. Gasp in a breath, puff it out between clenched teeth, then huff in another one, my head swimming at the overdose of oxygen, lights startlingly bright.
“We heard you from the moment you came in,” he says, smiling from a face that could tempt the most recalcitrant truant back to school.
His cheekbones catch the light, plunging the rest of his face into darker shadow, aided by the dark curtain of his too-long fringe. The eyes assessing me from under his smooth brow are hazel, shards of pounamu green glowing in their depths.
He untangles his hand from my hair, wiping the long strands that come away on his shirt before straightening.
“Get up,” he says, nudging at me with the steel toe of his boot. “We’re having a family conference in the kitchen, and you’re invited.”
I tuck the jewellery box into the corner of my bra—finding plenty of space there—and stand, locking my knees to stop my shaking legs spilling me straight back on the floor.
“After you,” Lachlan says, a grin elongating the plump cupid bow of his lips. He waves his hand towards the door like he’s a gentleman instead of someone who has my father’s blood drying to a crackle glaze on his knuckles.
I obey him, so eager to follow his directions that my cheekbone comes dangerously close to smashing into the door. I twist at the last second and make it through the gap instead, pausing in the hallway to cast a curious gaze back at him. Hoping like hell he’ll direct me anywhere other than the kitchen.
I don’t want to see my father. Don’t want to see him beaten for the stupid choice that he just keeps making, again and again, no matter what his intentions. I don’t want to force a smile and pretend everything’s fine while the two men who might soon kill us parade around our tiny flat, treating it like home.
But of course, that’s where he points for me to go. Where else?
The moment I walk into the kitchen, my father’s eyes well with panic, with regret, with apology.
I reach out my hand to touch his shoulder and Lachlan slaps it away, shoving me forward while his companion pulls out a seat for me. The best reassurance I can offer my dad is a watery smile that falters as I see the lumps and bumps, the blood, the bruises already forming, the leaks of crimson staining the whites of his eyes.
It all becomes too much, and I turn aside, glancing instead at Lachlan’s companion. A decision I regret the moment my eyes fix on him.
If Lachlan looks like he stepped out of the pages of a youth magazine, this man looks like he crawled out of a sewer, picking his teeth with the rigored arm of a dead rat.
“Take a seat, love,” he leers at me. “Nice of you to join us.”
“What’ve you got?”
I spin back to Lachlan, my eyes widening as he points at my bra. Creases appear at the corners of his eyes as he smiles. “Or do you want me to hunt it out?”
He hooks his fingers over, darting them directly at my inadequate bosom, and I fling up an arm to ward off the attack, my throat letting out a squeal that I did not intend to make.
“It’s some jewellery,” I say, panting because my chest has forgotten how to fully inflate. “As payment.”
I continue to avoid my dad’s gaze as I pull the velvet box out, sliding it across the table until my arm runs out and Lachlan has to lean over to pull it the last of the journey.
He flips open the lid, pursing his lips and arching his right eyebrow.
“The stone’s small, but it’s a good clarity, so it’s worth more than it looks. The setting is platinum and so is the stripe on the wedding band.” I wait a few seconds and when there’s no acknowledgement, lamely add, “That’s worth more than gold.”
“I’m well aware of what it’s worth,” he says slowly, a frown briefly contorting that perfect brow before he snaps the box closed and taps its edge on the table. “Are you aware how much money your family owes mine?”
“Uh…” I stumble to form words, not sure if this is a game I should join in, or just let him make his point. “I’m not sure. A thousand?”
