“I owe you nothing,” Sam said, his voice a harsh timbre when he finally spoke. “You left me to drown.”
“I did no such thing,” his father sneered, his accent strong and reminding him of his childhood. “You were being punished. I wouldn’t have allowed you to die, not when I needed you to help balance the pack. And now, because of you I had to kill them all.”
“I was a child,” Sam continued, fist clenched so tight on top of the table that his nails pierced into his palm.
“Eejit, you know it was for the good of the pack.”
His father cocked his head, and it was a gesture that broke through all his years of therapy, years of learning to love himself for something more than an empty shell that was made to be used. He was yet again a child, standing before his father who would beat him with a belt for the sake of it. Twenty years had barely aged the man, a few spots of grey and an extra wrinkle or two. His eyes were the same, hard and without care for his only son.
“How did you find me?” Sam asked quietly.
His father smiled, and Sam knew he wouldn’t get an answer.
“Why are you here? Why now?”
“Like I said, Samion. You owe me for leaving.” He shifted forward, hand reaching to grip Sam’s clenched fist. The chair scraped and fell as Sam shot to his feet, his breathing erratic as he dragged in large gulps of air.
If he wasn’t careful he was going to shift, and if he did, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop himself from killing the man who’d almost ruined him on a deep level.
Rage coursed through his veins, a violent wave that stole his words, forcing him to concentrate on breathing as his father stood too. Sam was no longer a child, but a strong, proud leopard. He had built a life for himself from nothing, and he wouldn’t let his father destroy it.
“There’s something you need to do for me,” his father said. “It’s the least you can do.”
“Fuck you, I owe you nothing.”
“You’re my son, and you will do this, or else.”
Sam growled. “Refer to my previous statement.”
“I need help with my new pack,” he continued as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “I’ve set a meeting this week. You’ll be introduced properly, before we welcome you within our ranks. I’ll send you the details.” He took a step to pass, and Sam stiffened every muscle to stop from flinching. “I don't need to remind you what happens if you disappoint me, Samion. It's a nice little life you've set yourself up here, and that witch I’ve seen around your place. She a mate? I’ll be sure to say hi next time.”
“She’s not my mate,” Sam said, reacting instantly. “But go anywhere near her and I’ll kill you, that’s if she hasn’t already burned you to pieces.”
“Aye, we both know you could never hurt me, Son. But I’m sure she will be all too interested to know the exact details of what you allowed to happen. The disgusting things you enjoyed.”
Dread tightened its grip around Sam’s throat, but before he allowed it to consume him he snarled. “You’re a sick fuck.”
“I’ll send you those details,” his father said with the confidence of someone who had never been told no. “It was nice to see you, Son.”
Sam stood immobile long after his father had left, only moving when he felt bile burning. Rushing outside he puked, coughing up nothing but water. Snot covered his face, tears streaming angrily as he raced back to the place he called home. He almost ran Alice over as he pushed open his front door with a violent shove, only to slam it closed seconds later.
“Sam?”
Sam choked out a sound, pressing himself against the door as he slowly fell to the floor, legs suddenly weak.
“Sam? What’s happened?” Alice dropped down beside him, panic spiking her tone. “Are you okay?”
Pulling his knees to his chest, Sam wrapped his arms around them, pressing his head back forcibly into the hard wood. The pressure helped him think, helped get his scattered thoughts together. “It’s my father,” he managed to get out.
Alarm brightened Alice’s eyes. “He’s dead, Sam. That private investigator promised us that Conor Murphy was dead.”
Sam scrunched his eyes closed, feeling the heat from his tears brush gently down his cheeks. His chest ached, so painful it was hard to breath. But it was no longer fear that soured his tongue. He wasn’t afraid of his father, not anymore. He had had two decades, half of that with a therapist, to understand what had happened to him as a child wasn’t his fault. That his father wasn’t a gigantic monster who would come in the dead of night and snatch him in his sleep.
His father was just a man. A pathetic man who preyed on those smaller and weaker than himself. Sam was no longer small, or weak.
“Sam, please?” Alice’s hand brushed at his hair, and Sam revelled in the gentle caress. Touch grounded him, reminded him that he was there, in the present and not locked in a dirty room, pinned to a filthy mattress.
“Well, they lied.” He licked the salt from his lips, meeting Alice’s gaze. “Because my da’s very much alive, and he’s found me.”
