Page 12 of Maddening Fixation

“I saw him!” I shouted again, struggling against Cillian’s grip. “Ask him where he was! Ask him why he was outside Sarah’s room! You’re accusing the wrong person!”

“Enough.”

The single word cracked through the room like a gunshot.

An oppressive silence descended as Grandfather Flynn stepped forward.

The patriarch.

The undisputed head of the Flynn clan.

Power seemed to move with him, commanding obedience without ever demanding it.

No one dared speak. No one dared breathe too loudly.

Even Uncle Cillian released my collar.

The old man stood ramrod straight despite his age, one weathered hand resting on the polished head of his cane.

His face revealed nothing.

His pale eyes settled on me. They were made of ice.

I searched his face desperately.

He had to know. He had to believe me.

“Grandda, I swear—”

His gaze never softened.

Not even for a heartbeat.

Before I could utter another word, Uncle Seamus, the youngest of my three uncles, erupted with a roar that shook the room.

“Ye lyin’ bastard!”

Uncle Seamus’s hand shot toward the bedside table, his fingers closing around the heavy brass lamp before I could make sense of what was happening.

For the briefest instant, time seemed to hesitate.

Then he swung.

The lamp hurtled toward me with savage force, and the brass connected with the left side of my face in a sickening crunch that reverberated through my skull.

White-hot agony erupted behind my eyes, so blinding it stole the air from my lungs.

For a heartbeat, the world ceased to exist.

No sound. No breath. No thought.

Then reality crashed back all at once.

The glass shade exploded into a thousand glittering fragments, scattering through the room as the brass frame twisted beneath the force of the impact.

A rush of warmth spilled over my face, thick and relentless, running down my cheek, soaking my lips, and dripping onto my shirt.

Blood.