I instantly recall the scars on her back and wonder if that’s all or if there was even more? What did he do to her? I don’t think I will get a straight answer if I ask—I know better than to try. I can’t look too eager. Besides, my knowing precisely how he mistreated her won’t change anything.
Chewing my sandwich, I search for the right thing to say. “He never did strike me as the fatherly type.”
At first, all she does is snort loudly and shake her head, then violently spear a slice of cucumber like she has a personal problem with it. “He was not. I don’t think he had the first idea how to be a real dad. Not that I know exactly what he should’ve done differently. But you see things growing up. You go to school, you notice the way the other kids talk about their dads. Doing things together, going places, making memories worth looking back on.”
That’s an interesting choice of words. Worth looking back on. I bet there are plenty of memories she would rather forget.
“I have to admit something.” I wait for her to glance up from her plate. “I assumed you were keeping yourself from reacting whenever I mentioned him because you wanted to be strong.”
“Who says I don’t?” There’s something steely in her eyes. This is Donovan Blackwell’s daughter. I can’t let myself forget that. Whatever he put her through, he shaped her into someone who won’t be underestimated. I wish it didn’t make me like her so much. I never imagined liking her. And I can’t afford to.
Now that she’s started talking, though, she won’t stop. I wonder if she’s been waiting for the opportunity all this time. An excuse to get things off her chest. I doubt she was ever given much of an opportunity. Who would she talk to, locked away like a princess in a fairytale?
Her long, heavy sigh tells the rest of the story, the parts she doesn’t put into words either because she doesn’t want to or because she can’t bring herself to. “Anything I felt for him died a long time before he did. It took years. It’s almost embarrassing how much I wanted him to change. I actually believed he would. He’d be nice to me. He’d buy me a necklace, for instance, only to make me wear it in front of his friends so he could look generous. But I wanted to believe he did it because he loved me. I wanted to believe it so, so badly.”
Amazing, really. At first, I didn’t want to tell her Donovan survived because I didn’t want to give her hope.
Now? It would be cruel to tell her the man who probably tormented her worse than I ever could is still breathing.
She looks around the room, chewing, then lifts a shoulder. “I mean, it’s not like I have much freedom around here, but it’s still better than every second of my life being spent under his thumb.” Then she snickers. “Though even at home, I was allowed to have a little entertainment.”
“Like what?”
“Like a TV.” I almost make the mistake of laughing when she rolls her eyes, like she can’t believe I need to ask the question. “I don’t think it would be that dangerous, letting me watch TV. Do you?”
When did this become a negotiation? And when did I start feeling sorry for her? That’s dangerous shit. “It depends.”
“Depends on what?” she questions.
“You don’t watch trashy reality shows, do you?”
The corners of her mouth twitch, but that’s the closest she comes to grinning. “Not sure what falls under that umbrella term. I like baking shows, but also stuff about addiction, hoarding, and OCD because of the psychological aspect of them.”
It sounds boring as hell to me, but probably less boring than sitting around all day staring at the walls.
Besides, the more time she has to sit and think, the more likely it is she’ll start plotting. Living here might be better than living with Donovan, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to be on her best behavior. It might be smart to give her a distraction.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. She tries to hide it, but I’m watching too closely for that. Her eyes light up with hope before she looks back down at what’s left of her plate, moving scraps of lettuce around with her fork.
Exactly what did he do to her? What did he put her through? I can’t shake the questions—hours later, I’m still wondering what he did to make her this disinterested in him. Kids aren’t born feeling disconnected from their parents. It’s the kind of thing that has to be trained, even beaten in.
Whatever it was, it went beyond overprotectiveness. That much is obvious. Somehow, he trained her to be strong, but he also trained her to disconnect. Taught her to turn off her emotions. I know from personal experience that’s not the kind of thing you read about in a book and learn to practice in your life. That is a hands-on sort of training.
I spent so many years imagining her as his pampered little princess, spoiled, unaware of what he did. Where the money came from. Empty-headed, content to enjoy what comes out of the suffering of others.
She eyes me warily when I carefully settle into bed without securing her. “Have you been forgetting something?”
“If I didn’t know better, I would think you enjoy being restrained.”
“I don’t. I’m only checking.” She rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue, getting in beside me. “I don’t want you blaming me for letting you break protocol.”
“I’m not breaking anything,” I reply. “Everything I do has a reason. Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn.
In case she doesn’t believe me, I drape an arm over her, holding her still. “You’re not going anywhere, so don’t bother thinking otherwise.”
You are mine. At least for now.
15
