Page 40 of Hate Games

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Page 40 of Hate Games

My gut clenches. Fuck, is she going to say what I think she is?

“One day, I came home to find my ma happy and upbeat. It had been months since I’d seen her like that. I was relieved and proud that she had pulled herself out of the depths of her depression.” She begins to tremble again, and I hold her tighter, offering comfort. “That night, I was supposed to go to my dad’s house, but he was—is—an asshole and his affair partner was even worse. I couldn't bring myself to go, so I stayed home. And then...” Her voice breaks and tears start streaming down her face. “My ma took her own life.”

Christ, I knew that’s what she was going to say, but fuck.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, feeling utterly useless as I watch the tears stream down her face.

“I found her,” she confesses. “She slit her wrists. I was so engrossed in reading that I didn’t even hear.”

Fuck, she was thirteen when her mam died. “You were just a kid. You couldn't have known,” I murmur against her head.

She shakes her head, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “But I should have known. It was so hard, so damn hard. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t function. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my ma’s dead body. I just wanted it to stop. I needed a break. I just wanted it all to stop.” Her voice breaks, choked with sobs. “The doctor came and gave me sleeping pills,” she cries, pulling in a ragged breath. “I took them all. I just needed it to stop. I wanted to sleep and not think about anything.”

I feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach as she reveals the depth of her pain. I can't imagine what she must have gone through. I hold her close, feeling the tremors wrack her body.

“You were just a child trying to cope with something no one should ever have to face,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. “It’s not your fault. None of it is.”

She clings to me as if I'm her lifeline, soaking my shirt with her tears. “Twice I did it. Both times I failed,” she chokes out between sobs. “I miss her every single day.”

Fuck. Fuck. She’s been through so fucking much. So fucking much. How the hell has she survived?

“I know, baby. I know,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You're so strong, baby. So fucking strong.”

She bucks against me, her tiny body shaking in my arms, and I tighten my grip, holding her closer to me. "It’s going to be okay," I whisper, stroking her hair, trying to calm her down. I'm completely shattered by what she's told me. I would never have known the shit she’s been through. She’s so fucking strong. She’s managed to hide just how much she’s hurting.

I remember the first time I saw her. Christ, she looked so broken, and now I know why.

She glances up at me. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from crying, but there's a look of relief in them. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely above a whisper.

"For what?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"For listening to me," she says, her voice barely audible. "For not judging me. For just... being here."

"You don't ever have to thank me for that," I reply softly, pressing my lips against her forehead. "I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

She presses closer to me and releases a yawn. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s still early.”

“You need some rest,” I tell her as I lift her into my arms and carry her to the bedroom. She protests weakly but eventually melts into my embrace. I tuck her into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as she curls up on her side.

She looks so fucking beautiful, even with the red, puffy eyes and tear streaks on her cheeks. I press a kiss to her head and leave the room.

My anger has been simmering on the surface, ready to explode at any moment. I want to track down her fucking father and hurt him. That motherfucker doesn’t deserve the title of father. Fuck no.

Once I’m in the sitting room, I pull out my phone and call Freddie. The man is good at getting information. If anyone can get me what I want, it’s him.

“Maverick, it’s been a while. What’s the craic?”

“Not much, but I need your help,” I say through clenched teeth. “I need you to find someone called Ben Turner.” I heard Lisa call him Ben while she was arguing with him.

“Are you finally taking a pop at Jennings’ son-in-law?” he laughs. “About fucking time.”

My brows knit together. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Ben Turner,” he begins, “is the husband of Tanya Jennings—or Turner now. Tommy’s daughter. If that’s not what you’re doing, then what is?”

I take a deep breath and let out a sigh. "He’s my woman’s father. I need to find out everything I can about him."


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