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It was going to bruise badly.
He backed up slowly, holding his hand by the wrist. Gazing down at me like a fucking coward, horrified by what he’d done.
“God, I didn’t mean to,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean that.”
I knew it now. That this had never been about anything more than owning me, getting to brag that Merrick Llwyd’s ward belonged to him. He’d wanted to own me. Nothing more.
As soon as I wasn’t able to be controlled, his pleasant mask had slipped.
Rage flooded me like I’d never felt before. Like someone had pulled the supports from a dam and let the river burst forth like a storm.
Hands shaking, I pushed myself to my knees and crawled upright. Gripping the counter for support. His eyes were wide as he stumbled back towards the doorway. Shaking his head back and forth.
“You’ve done that before,” I whispered.
“What—what did you say?”
I turned on him, eyes dry, face tingling, rage calming to a pillar of ice inside my chest.
“I’m not the first woman you’ve hurt,” I said. “Tell me the truth.”
He hesitated and in that split second of silence, I found my answer.
The world went quiet and my father’s face swam into my vision. He’d trapped me for so long in the ice cold prison of my childhood home. He’d put a gun to my head and shot down every hope I had of truly trusting anyone.
I was a child then. Unable to fight back.
But I wasn’t a child anymore and I had all the power of the Welsh King behind me. I was going to make sure that Osian Cardiff came face-to-face with my rage.
That he felt the full fury of it.
My fingers curled around the drawer, pulling it open, wrapping my hand around the knife handle inside.
It was a large blade, sharp and lethal.
His eyes widened, big and afraid.
“You’re insane,” he breathed.
“Not insane,” I said flatly. “Just fucking tired of taking whatever you give me.”
He ducked as the knife flew past him and stuck in the wall. Luckily for me, there was a full set of knives in the drawer.
They littered the kitchen and the hallway as I pursued him into the dark. He ran from me, his fingernails scraping at the lock as he ripped it open. When I ran out of knives, I tore the books from the shelves and rained them down on him.
There were no words, I had no desire to speak with him. That part was over with and all I had was the bitter taste at the end.
Just a dry mouth, no tears, and the anger in my chest.
There was a brass statue in the hallway—it had been there for as long as I could remember. Osian ripped open the front door and stumbled back. I picked up the figure of a man and an angel wrestling. It was solid brass and cold in my hands as I scrambled down the porch to where he’d parked his car.
His brand new sports car with shiny red paint.
The engine revved and I threw it as hard as I could, watching it shatter his back light and smash in the metal around it. Bits of paint and plastic littered the ground as he peeled out of the drive and disappeared into the dark.
“Fuck you,” I screamed. “I hope you fucking die.”
The world went quiet as I stood there in the rubble. The air smelled sweet, like spring, and I could faintly hear frogs from the pond at the corner of Merrick’s garden.
