Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
I remember watching him and thinking, This type of love is dangerous.
Because the strongest man I know would crumble if he lost her.
And I remember thinking, I’m glad this kind of love will never find me.
But, boy, was I fucking mistaken.
“Are you going to tell me what really happened now?” Dad asks, his voice soft, though tension cuts through the undertone like a blade.
“Leave him be,” Grandpa replies, his tone firm but measured.
Grandpa’s frown is less pronounced than Dad’s, his upright posture defying his age. Wisps of white hair brush against his forehead, settling into the deep lines etched on his face. Those lines, carved by time and experience, lend him an air of quiet authority, even when his expression softens.
He doesn’t need to shield me from Dad. He shouldn’t have to.
I needed to do this a long time ago.
“Dad, I’m trying to have a conversation with my son,” my father snaps, his frustration spilling over. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of it.”
“It’s my grandson, so I’m not staying out. You leave.”
“Can you not fight?” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was kidnapped and tortured, Dad. That’s what happened.”
The room falls into a weighted silence. Both of them stiffen, their reactions like opposite sides of the same coin.
Dad inches closer to the bed, his face caught between fear and fury. “Who was it? Is this because of the mafia connections?”
“No.”
“Then who? Who hurt you like this, Gaz?”
“Oh, this?” I gesture at the bandage on my forehead, then lift my arm. “I did these myself.”
Grandpa closes his eyes, his expression twisting in quiet pain.
I brace myself.
Stop breathing.
Wait for the disappointment to surface on Dad’s face.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his expression is unreadable, and I hate that more.
“Why?” he asks, his voice soft but sharp enough to cut me deep.
The word rips through the tendons holding my sanity together.
I shrug, feigning indifference. “Because I wanted to get rid of something in my blood. It was poisoning me, and it hurt. So I decided to take it out.”
“Then you should’ve hurt them, not yourself.”
Heat floods my face, and I shift uncomfortably on the bed. “You…you’d be okay with that? Me hurting others?”
“If they hurt you, why not? Why the fuck would you hurt yourself instead of them, Gareth?”
I stay silent, my heart hammering so loudly it drowns out his words.
Dad’s okay with me hurting others.
He said it’s okay.
“Son.” He takes my hand—the one not covered in little Band-Aids. The ones I refused to let Mom replace because I can still feel Kayden’s touch when he put them on.
I stare at Dad, probably looking lost as hell. “Yeah?”
“I want you to tell me why you hurt yourself and not them. You’re not someone who’d hurt himself. Ever.”
“Leave the kid alone,” Grandpa says.
“Be quiet or get out, Dad,” my father barks, the tension between them sparking like static electricity.
“Why are you so sure I wouldn’t?” I ask, my voice barely audible, even to myself.
“Because you’re outward, not inward. That’s why I got you into hunting, archery, and shooting. I wanted you to channel your energy at a target instead of yourself, or…” He trails off. “…people.”
“Christ,” Grandpa mutters under his breath, the weight of Dad’s words sinking into the room.
My teeth dig into my lower lip. “Y-you…you knew?”
“That you wanted to kill people?” His lips tug into a faint, almost bitter smile. “Sort of.”
“H-how?” My voice cracks before I can rein it in.
“My suspicion started early.”
“How early?”
“When you were eight. Nine, maybe. You’ve never been the type to let things slide, especially when it came to what you considered yours.”
“And that made you think I wanted to kill people?”
Dad leans forward, his green eyes locking with my identical ones. “My suspicions were confirmed after the fight with Gilbert in school. You were both ten, and you beat the crap out of each other until a teacher intervened. It seemed over after that. But then at Killian’s birthday party a month later, you asked Gilbert if he wanted to see the toy he’d been begging his parents for. A toy you asked your mom for two weeks prior. You took him to the indoor pool, pushed him in, and held his head underwater. If I hadn’t followed you out of suspicion, you would’ve drowned him. And you had a poker face the whole time.”
“He pushed Kill down the stairs,” I snap, clenching my fists. “He twisted his ankle and almost broke it. He needed to pay.”
I purse my lips, stealing a glance at Grandpa, who gives me a sad smile.
The words tumble out before I can stop them. It’s the concussion talking—or maybe it’s the aggression that’s been festering in the void for years.
Gilbert was the first person I wanted to kill.
The demons in the void whispered that the world would be better off without him. When I was holding Gilbert under the water, I heard a noise, so I ran off. When I came back, I saw Dad pulling the waste of space out of the pool and helping him, but I hid from his view, then called Grandpa to pick me up, and I spent a whole week at his place.