He turns on his heel and walks to the front door with Heather in tow.
Knox clears his throat before speaking and tries to explain.
“Our mother was with Frank when she got pregnant with us. She left while he was working because she was afraid for us. He was a monster even then. We moved more times than I can count, but eventually he found us in Virginia. Very long story short, he kidnapped Carter when we were three. He was never sexually abused, but he was beaten and tortured for three long fucking years. His bloody body was left on our porch for our mother to find.
Knox takes in a shaky breath, obviously struggling with the memories of Carter in so much pain.
“He barely survived. The trauma continues today. I-”
“Luca? Is everything okay?” A brunette comes in and heads straight for Bones and sits on his lap.
“Yes, Butterfly.”
His eyes lighten as he stares at her, profound love in his gaze, and it instantly reminds me of the way we look at Heather. Like she hung the goddamn moon. He motions to Knox and I.
“Butterfly, this is Knox and Killian. Their brother Carter is outside with, I guess it’s ‘their’ girl.”
Knox nods politely.
“Nice to meet you, Butterfly.”
I sit laughing as Bones levels him with just a look—a vicious glare as Bones corrects him.
“Butterfly to me. To you it’s Athena or Mrs. Bonetti.”
She smiles warmly even though she has never laid eyes on us before.
“Apparently, these are Frank's sons.”
Her smile fades as she begins to look at us differently once she knows who’s responsible for the blood running through our veins. I want to say fuck it and leave, and I would if it weren’t for Heather.
45
TRIGGER WARNING
Trigger Warning:
The followingchapter deals with sexual abuse of a minor. Some details are included. Reader discretion is advised.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE HEATHEN
“Carter. Goddamn it, look at me.”
He stands with his back turned to me, his shoulders slumped over, his fingers visibly twitching.
“Seeing that picture—it hurt. I get it, but don’t shut me out. Let me help you through it.”
He slams his fist into the cement wall before pulling it back with a hiss.
“I’m not going to survive losing you.”
It’s times like this that I’m desperate to touch him. His fist is bleeding, but I can’t even check to see if it’s broken.
“Carter. You’re never going to lose me.”
He laughs, but there’s no sincerity behind it—no joy—only anger and bitterness.
