Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“You’re hurting me,” she hisses, but she doesn’t try to twist away. Her cheeks lose their color and I can sense the fear wafting off her. It’s intoxicating and my heart’s racing fast, being so close to her after all this time, a heady mix of pure hatred and the insane need to shove her back and fuck her senseless fighting for control.
“I’ve been wondering for years,” I say, getting close, right in her face. I shove her back, still gripping her wrist, and pin her up against the wall in the shadow of the stairs. She looks at me with pure panic and fear in her eyes, and she fucking should. “Which one of you started it? Was it you or Cait? It could go either way. Cait was a good person but she wasn’t exactly innocent. I don’t have any illusions about my little sister and the family we grew up in. This place drove us all to extremes, and while it never shocked me what happened to her, I always wondered. You had an edge to you back then too, didn’t you? Maybe you were the one that brought that shit into this house?”
“Kellen,” she says, half a moan, half a scared whimper. My fingers are digging into her wrist hard enough to leave a bruise and I realize I’m inches from her now, breathing hard, getting lost in my rage. I could hurt her, really hurt her, break her for all the anger I still feel after all these years. I wanted to do it too, ravish her and destroy her and leave her a simpering mess on the floor. I’d revel in her pain and drink down her tears.
Instead, I release her and step back. Her shoulders hunch forward as she rubs her arm, glaring at me, still afraid I might come back for more.
“Forget it. I don’t want to know.” I turn away, shaking my head. “It won’t fix anything. Might make it all fucking worse.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice quiet. “I didn’t want any of it to happen. You know that.”
“I bet you didn’t.” I have to get control of myself. I can’t risk ruining my plans for petty revenge. “Is my mother in her room?”
“Yes, but—”
“Go back to the garden, Tara. And pretend like you never saw me out there.” I’m trembling with anger and I can’t look back right now. If I do, I might see Cait in Tara’s eyes right now, and I don’t think I can handle it. Even after all this time, seeing Tara again woke up the rage I try to keep hidden as much as I can, and I’m ashamed of myself for letting it take control of me.
I shouldn’t have done that. Tara was just as fucked up as Cait when all that nasty shit happened and she didn’t exactly walk away from the experience without her own scars. The girl’s as broken as I am, maybe worse, and hurting her won’t bring back my sister.
But god damn, do I want to hurt her anyway.
I head down the hall and leave Tara at the stairs. Ahead, the manor turns into a maze of corridors, junctions, hallways, dead ends, and so many doors. It was like growing up in a labyrinth, and I remember how there was constant construction to this place for the first ten years of my life as my father added more and more space onto the main structure. It sprawled over the years and became this unruly, tangled mess, like an overgrown hedge. Back then, the place crawled with staff, and despite the massive sprawl, it never felt empty.
Now though, the halls are quiet. I reach my mother’s wing and slow as I approach her door. My parents had separate bedrooms growing up. I never thought it was strange until I met other kids and let slip that my parents didn’t share a sleeping space. They mocked me mercilessly and I learned to keep that bit of trivia to myself.
I can’t blame my mother for being unable to stay in the same room as my father for long.
I pause outside of her door. Nerves wrack me. I haven’t been back in a while, but I’ve called over the years and I’ve heard the rumors. I take a deep breath and knock before reaching for the knob.
But it twists and opens on its own, forcing me to step back.
I expect a nurse. Maybe someone from the staff. Instead, my cousin Hugh stands there, looking surprised.
“Cousin,” I say, head tilted. “I’m home.”
His mouth opens and works, but nothing comes out. Hugh’s five years older than me with dark hair turning gray, a pale, waxy face, a strong jaw, and good height. He’s decent looking but bland like everyone in his wing of the Hayle family. His father, Cormac, and his mother, Irene, both live on the premises somewhere, though Cormac is a bit eccentric and Irene is generally unpleasant, and it won’t bother me if they remain hidden in their lair.