I spent twenty-four years with a pedophile and ten months with a homicidal surgeon.
Frankie killed Denver, and six months ago, I slaughtered the doctor.I cut him into bite-sized pieces and fed him to the wolves.
Now I’m free.Free to fuck and fall in love and be happy.But I don’t know how to do any of those things.
I don’t know how to move forward.
Shifting, I rest my temple against the doorframe and close my eyes.
My body knows pain.It knows touches that end in bruises, broken bones, and stitches.
The contrast between what’s happening in the next room and what I’ve lived through is suffocating.While they’re shamelessly nude and groping one another, I can’t take off my shirt in front of another person.
I despise the scars crisscrossing my torso.Some from Denver.Most from the doctor.My family doesn’t know the worst of it.I don’t tell them.What’s the point?Monty already looks at me like he failed.Maybe he did.I don’t need to remind him.
The bed groans, signaling Kody’s climactic finish.As he retreats to the bathroom, Frankie and my dad continue to go at it.
Give her a break, old man.
Looks like he’s killing her.Pounding her flesh.Sucking her face.Splitting her in half.
Should he be doing that while she’s pregnant?She’s not showing yet, but still.His stamina is both impressive and deeply disturbing.
And Kody?The creeper stands in the doorway of the bathroom, watching them with hooded eyes.Probably filing away her moans so he can savor them later like a feral, sex-starved Lycan.
Finally, they finish and stagger off to the bathroom.Water runs.Clothes are collected and donned.Amid it all, Frankie’s melodic laughter makes me smile.
Until a deep grunt cuts through the space.Kody’s voice, low and knowing.
I peer out just as Monty’s head snaps toward the closet.
Of course, Kody knows I’m here.He has supernatural hearing, a souvenir he kept from our Arctic nightmare.
Without another word, he and Frankie slip out of the apartment.
“Come out, Wolf.”Monty shrugs on his suit jacket and lowers to the bed.
I’ve never been shy about shit that makes other people uncomfortable.Sex.Death.The cringe in between.So I push open the door and step into the dim light.
He looks…Off.Sex-mussed black hair, silver at the temples.Expensive suit, slightly wrinkled.Blue eyes softer than usual.He’s a handsome fucker.Like father, like son.But right now, he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, looking a little uncomfortable.
I can help with that.
“Relax, Dad.That wasn’t the first time you raw-dogged my childhood trauma.I’ve seen you grunting and groaning in every position all over the island.Your technique isn’t terrible, but if you want a performance review—”
“I don’t.”He shoots me a look, but there’s no bite behind it.Just exhaustion.
“Don’t act like you don’t love an audience.”
“Not from my son.”He rubs a hand down his face.“We need to establish some boundaries.”
“And miss out on this father-son bonding?We need a road trip.You, me, some hookers with hearts of gold.Think of the memories we’d make together.”
His eyes go hollow, flashing with darkness and…
Shame.
What did I say?
