“And in doing so, I became him. Just as fucking cruel. Just as much of a tyrant. It was the only way I could make him pay. The only way he’d stop.”
Adonis was crying.
There were no tears or sobs, but he was crying. Cracked open, his inner most fear exposed and raw to the world, he hid his pain behind arrogance and control.
His father was dead, but his memory breathed still in the lives of the men left behind in his wake. In a woman who lived in peace but remained hidden to stay away from his world.
Abuse left untold victims behind, and even when revenge was served, it didn’t heal the scars.
“You are not your father.”
“Fabiana, you’re resting against the blood of a man I killed tonight for stealing from me.”
She jerked and pulled away, having forgotten the blood when she’d come to help him through his pain. Her wild eyes met his, the dampness on her cheek and against her chest registering in her mind.
“Can you still say I’m not my father now?”
