Page 55 of The Addict

“You’ve always been a little bitch,” he hissed, forcing me to look at him while he said it, his other arm pressing into me from behind, pinning me to the floor.

I fucking hated him.

“Get your filthy hands off of me!” I yelled, pushing with all the force I had.

David stumbled slightly, though his grip on me did not waver. The physical contact only seemed to fuel his anger. He aggressively pressed me back to the floor, twisting my wrist behind my back as if he was apprehending a criminal, angling his knee into the small of my back to keep me stationary. The position left me immobile and in excruciating pain. All I could do was squirm underneath his hold.

The room’s handle turned quickly. “Father,” Damian’s voice echoed around us.

He couldn’t get in.

“What is this, Noah?” David said, clearing his throat and catching a breath. We were both exhausted after the struggle.

I looked up to the object he now held between his two forefingers.

“I said, what is this?” he repeated.

I stared at it, perplexed. “Is that what everyone is so angry about?” I asked quietly.

David tilted his head up. “Why? Have you done something worse?”

A flash of Silas’s face popped into my mind. His chest. His tattoo. His cock.

As a matter of fact...

“No,” I said with a smirk. “I suppose not.”

David pressed his knee deeper into my back, causing me to wince.

“Answer my question.”

“It’s weed.”

The more I thought about it, the more it made me want to laugh. Damian had found the tiny, burnt out bud that I had carelessly thrown into my top drawer without covering it.

“You bet your ass it is,” David growled. “And if I ever see anything like this again in my house, you’re going to regret the day you were born.”

I scowled. “Don’t worry. I already do.”

With a throaty chuckle, David stood, allowing me to pick myself off of the floor. I watched him suspiciously as he pointed towards the locked entry way.

“Get out of my sight. Your mom wants to talk to you.”

Though it was my mom who had requested the talk, it was Damian hammering me with all of the questions, like he was the dad I never got.

“How many times have you smoked this shit?”

“Damian, language,” My mother reprimanded.

I figured lying would save me the most trouble. And time. I didn’t need my family poking their noses in where they didn’t belong. “Once.”

I had said it before:

“It’s my life...”

And it was. I didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion of it.

Damian paced a few feet away from me. His face was deep in thought, determining his next words, his next move.