No sound filled the air, nothing but the rumbling of my hungry stomach, and each growl worsened my already vile mood.
My father’s eyes moved to a small pink clock on the computer desk—the clock Woody had stolen from Nessie but couldn’t fucking read.
I focused on the noise emanating from the little time-teller. Tick-tock. Tic-tock. The sound gnawed at me as I watched the hand go around.
“Come on, I think they're asleep.” He shifted to the door, making little and poor efforts to hush the sound of his giant feet.
I stared at him blankly, not moving a muscle.
“Get up on your feet!” he commanded, his tone quieter than usual.
I didn’t deliver an answer. I taunted him with my shard, fascinating myself as I watched it dance across my knuckles. I had every intention of going. But he wouldn’t control my pace in any of this, and I wanted him to know that.
“Up. Now. Trust me, this will be good for you. It’s a good way for you to release some steam, and you don’t have to part with that.” His head bobbed to the glass in my hand. “You can bring it; you can use it. . . but remember, you cut too deep and the fun is over. . . forever. You fuck this up, and I put a bullet in your head the next time your moods get out of control. Your mother thinks I already should have.”
I didn’t care about her opinions. I hated the fucking woman.
“You have one chance to become all I want you to be. The perfect son. Or, you die.”
I brushed off his threat, not at all bothered by it.
I climbed to my feet, watching his steps as they pulled him from my room. I stepped into the darkness of the hallway, and I followed the creak of the floorboards because the blackness of night had stolen my vision. But I knew every inch of this place and had no trouble moving until my feet stomped all over my father’s shadow.
He’d stopped at a door.
Nessie’s room.
In the dark, it was hard to see, but I knew the pink chalkboard with her name in the center, hung crooked yet proudly against the wood.
The floorboards groaned with my stomach. The house was feeling as miserable as me. . . and probably, for at least one of the same fucking reasons. We didn’t like our company.
My silver eyes twinkled in the shadows, staying on my father until his hand turned the brass knob, letting us into the room.
A small toy chest spread through the carpet fibers as the door shifted it away.
The room was peaceful and still, waiting for destruction and dishonor—waiting for me.
Shades of pink clothed the room, making it more feminine than the rest of the house. Jolie lay on her side, wrapped snuggly in the lower bunk of a purple-framed bed.
The blankets were tucked up to her chin, keeping her safe from dwelling shadows; her pretty face was stained by tears of fear, highlighted by the moonshine, perfectly in line with the window. Its glow kissed her skin, appreciating her beauty as it deserved.
I bent to her side, flicking her hair from her face with the edge of my shard. The dry blood of my father wouldn’t taint her with his grime. Her eyes fluttered, but they didn’t open. She was lost in peaceful dreams.
“Get in.”
I glanced back at my father, struggling to see the expressionon his face.
“Into the bed, Woodrow.”
He called me Woodrow, and I was almost sure it was to fucking piss me off. Testing me. Testing me to see if I’d turn on him when an object to release the tension inside me was laid out before me.
“For what?” I inquired, daring him to fill in the blanks.
“I think you know what for. Not even you are that stupid.”
I made out like I was thinking about it, but this wasn’t something I needed to think about. “And I can do what I want?” I was challenging him to disagree with me.
“Anything you want. She’s your gift, remember? She cost me a lot of money, so get your fucking use out of her.”
