Page 4 of The Price Of Possession

I clench my teeth and rein in my anger. This life comes with sacrifices. He knows I'm not willing. That doesn't stop him from threatening me, hurting me, destroying me. Lucky for me, I have nothing left to lose. Never did. I'm impervious to his bullshit anymore.

That's the thing about breaking someone, they finally stop giving a fuck.

My mouth curves into a sly smirk, and I can't help myself. I laugh. A cruel, mirthless laugh that only enrages him further.

His hands grip my shoulders until they bruise. His hands shake with barely contained rage. “I have torn you down into nothing to forge you into a man. A man worthy of leading Void. To lead this school. Everything I have ever done was out of necessity,” he says coldly, as if I'm a soldier instead of his only Goddamn son.

He releases me and stumbles backward with a huff. I tilt my chin up. “Your methods are fucked and so am I, thanks to you.” It's a low blow, but I don't give a damn. I want his actions to weigh on him like a Goddamn anchor. I know it never will. His lips button into a tight scowl. He takes a measured breath. “My methods are effective. Necessary. I will break you. When I find the way through to you, you will bend.

“You will not turn out like your mother.”

I remain stoic despite the fact he slanders her name. This fucker

will never control me.

“Clean this shit up, get yourself together, and don't embarrass me.”

I wait until he storms up the spiral staircase before giving him the middle finger. I have no fucking desire to keep up the Grimshaw legacy. Fuck that. Nothing he can say will sway me to bend. He knows exactly what the fuck he's done.

Kieran age 12

“It's conditioning, Kieran,” my father's voice cuts through the darkness. My head lolls. His stern words have me on edge. Is he going to whip me again? Burn me? Fresh laceration marks still burn my flesh from last night. Dried blood still cakes my backside. My wrists ache. The heavy iron chains dig into my skin. I grit my teeth to stanch the pain. My shoulders sag, pulling the chains tighter. I've lost count of how many days I've been down here listening to the same drip of water splash against the old stone floor. The only thing keeping me remotely warm are my damp jeans. I don't bother to respond to his words. There's no point. No one can save me from his depravity.

“You'll understand soon enough. This is necessary,” he reiterates. I hear him striking a match along the pebbled stone. His black oxfords come into view. It takes too much effort keeping my head upright, so I don’t bother. My wrists are cracked and raw. Gotta conserve my energy. My mind shuts off; I hate this Goddamn place.

I hate him.

The smell of his mint aftershave smacks me in the face. “Eyes on me, boy. You're weak. We need to cauterize your soul. No weakness can seep through.”

I don't listen to him. My dry, cracked throat offers him a weak scoff. I swallow the razor blades that feel like they've lodged in my throat.

He pitches forward. His free hand grabs the nape of my neck, digging his hands in my dark curls. I wince. His eyes are a fiery inferno. He drills into me with malice.

“Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to, Kieran. For the

greater good. My father did the same to me, and his father before

him.”

“I'll burn fire at the gates before I end up like you,” I say coldly.

A cold, calculated grin forms on his smug face. “Oh, my son, you already are well on your way there.”

Then he teases the flame along my stomach, charring my skin.

I let out a shattering roar. My body fights against the restraints. They cut into my skin with a lacerating pull. The smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils. “You. Will. Obey.”

My phone buzzes, vibrating somewhere in this Goddamn room. Fuck knows where I left that shit. I slink toward the bar in search of more liquor. My phone lays on the soft plush bar mat. Zain's number flickers across the screen. I scrub my hands over my face as if that'll cure my problems.

“What's up, man?” I answer, clearly hungover as shit and slightly

annoyed.

“You sound like death,” he says flatly.

I raid the mahogany cupboards for something. Anything. I spot an unopened bottle of red. Not my first choice, but it'll do the trick. If I have to be around Mortensen, I might as well piss him off in the process. I live to disappoint.

“Thanks, I feel it,” I deadpan. I uncork the bottle and take a swig. I stagger back toward the couch. I prop my feet on the eagle winged coffee table.