Page 130 of Cain

“I’m just saying. You could have simply killed her.”

“Oh, no, no, no. Death would be too kind.” He tosses the cigarette on the marble floor and steps on it. “Don’t start crying to me about how rough you had it. You don’t get to compare anything to hell. You were invisible, while I was his favorite toy to break.”

So, Adam was in the house when all this happened.

“Of course the golden heir didn’t get a front-row seat to the torture show. That honor was reserved for the bastard son.”

“What?” I squeal, unable to hide my surprise, drawing both gaze on me. “Aren’t you your father’s son?”

“I was a walking disgrace for his name and reputation,” Cain snarls. “I’m not his son, just the bastard tagged with my mother’s fortune. He never wanted that shit to see daylight.” He’s breathing heavily, running his fingers through his hair.

I lower my eyes in embarrassment, as if it’s my mistake or I’m the one who caused his memories to resurface. “You’re dead to me. Stay the fuck away from me, or I’ll make sure you end up that way for real,” he says solemnly.

Adam stays quiet. He’s calm and composed, keeping his brown eyes fixed on Cain’s.

“I’m sorry, Cain,” I say quietly under my breath.

“Go to your room, Katerina.”

I stay motionless for a while, unsure of what to do. Should I listen to him? I don’t want to leave; I want to stay by his side.

“But …”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He nails his eyes on me. “Go. To. Your. Room. Now.”

I dart my gaze to Adam. He seems calm and unwilling to leave.

But I bite my tongue and walk away, leaving them to stew in their mess, hoping they remember what family is supposed to mean and don’t end up tearing each other apart.

Fucking asshole.

I march into my office and slam the door hard enough to shake the walls. Papers flutter off the desk, and one of them lands in the goddamn trash, where this whole fucking day belongs.

Naturally, he follows. I don’t have to check—I know he’s right behind me.

No matter how many times I shut the door in his face, the bastard still thinks he’s welcome.

He saved my life. What was it, two hours ago? Not that I’m counting. I’m not replaying it in my head again and again like some kind of pathetic, trauma-bondedidiot.

He could’ve let me die. Hell, he should have. But no. He had to go all noble and dramatic, hauling me out of that mess like we were still brothers or some shit, and have me owe him my goddamn life.

I haven’t decided if I’m pissed because he saved me or because he made me feel something when he did.

Either way, fuck him.

“Well, look who can’t take a fucking hint,” I say without turning. “Still riding the high from your big hero moment, or are you just addicted to being a pain in my ass?”

He leans against the doorframe, smug as hell.

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you before you die of ego inflation, brother.”

Brother …

The word drags bile from my throat and leaves a tremor down my spine.

I had two of them.

One I hated with a depth that poisoned every breath he took. I prayed for his silence, his absence, his death. I fantasized about his end like some people dream of freedom.