Page 3

It was given as a blood debt from my family with a bunch of other old antiques no one could give a fuck about, apart from my grandparents.

Our table, a large marble urn with our family crest engraved into it, and a check.

That’s what the Xandros’ received in exchange for agreeing to follow my parents’ narrative that Kane killed Asher.

That’s what losing both of their children was worth. An estimated $20 million.

Kane pauses so he’s not out of reach of the table and asks, “Did you care?”

“Obviou—”

“No,” he snaps, kicking against the table leg as I scream.

“You didn’t.” He kicks the leg again. His voice is deeper, yet it’s his eyes that strike fear into me.

Wild and full of hate as he nods to himself then says in his usual tone, “You accepted the illusion of Asher because that’s what you wanted to have.

All you ever had to do was walk away from him. ”

The scar on his hand doesn’t belong there. I’m the one who stitched it up and caused it. I’m the one who knows why it exists in the first place. It feels wrong that it’s on him when he was my one piece of good.

“You gave yourself his scar. You mutilated yourself, for what? To convince me that I fucking killed you? Do you realize how fucking twisted that is?”

His jaw tenses and his nostrils flare. Just like Asher’s would before one of his outbursts. But this is Kane. He’s someone who cares about people. Someone who gave his dog away so that his brother couldn’t hurt it when he’d get pissed off.

I soften my voice and tilt my head as much as I’m able to without choking myself as I ask, “Do you, Kane?”

It was meant as a way to get a reaction, but now I’m questioning if he really does know how fucked up he is.

Does he remember how he ignored me while the prison guards led him to the grave?

That was the last time I saw him. Our last conversation was worse, and there’s no sign of the eighteen-year-old boy who refused to let go of me.

He looks at his hand, examining the scar. His voice comes out slow, as though he’s replaying through a torrent of memories.

“I’ve had pieces of my soul ripped from my body.” He looks up and his eyes are haunted. “Don’t think this,”—he raises his hand—“means anything to me. Neither do you.”

That’s bullshit. If I meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t have put so much effort into his deception.

It wasn’t a whim, and I’m clearly fucked up for thinking the effort means anything.

Yet, I still hold on to hope as I ask, “Why did you do this then? If I mean nothing to you, why would you come back into my life to torture me and now, what? Hang me?”

“Because you fucking ruined me!” he erupts, taking a step forward. “And then you chose him. Again.”

His boots thud against the table and shake the unsteady legs that are the only thing preventing me from hanging. My feet slip and the noose tightens around my neck. He stops in front of me and holds my knees in a bruising grip. It keeps me steady despite how the force keeps my legs further apart.

“But you’re always going to be a cheating bitch,” he says, venom dripping.

“I gave you everything and you did the same thing. Then I made you think Asher gave you everything. You had the house you always wanted, the life of fucking luxury you craved, but you still needed that hole inside of you filled.”

It becomes harder to breathe. Not because of the coarse rope around my neck. It’s due to him knowing every single internal weak point I have, and he doesn’t reduce the pressure as he prods against them.

“You’re hollow, Delilah. There’s nothing in here.

” He taps directly over my heart. “So you push as much as you can up in here,”—he cups between my thighs—“hoping it fucking fixes it—fixes you. But you are a fucking leech. You suck out everything, gorge yourself on it, and the only way to get you off me is by burning you.”

I refuse to let the tears burning the back of my eyes fall as I hiss, “I wish you died.”

“I did,” he says easily, stroking his two middle fingers through my slit.

There’s no band around his ring finger, and he lets go of my knee to cup my cheek. Stroking across my cheekbone with his thumb, he adds more cruelty.

“Even like this, on the precipice of death, your cunt begs for one more hit of your addiction. That is why you’re a whore. I never knew before.” He laughs dryly and shakes his head. “I thought it was all for me, but you don’t even belong to yourself.”

I pull my head back from his hand. Hurt fuses to my words from him killing everything I loved about him. “You sound like him.”

His fingers pinch against my cheek as he tightens his hold and drags my head forward. My body shakes as he circles my entrance with two fingers.

“Does it turn you on?” he asks.

I don’t answer. I refuse to be humiliated any more than I am already.

Part of me refuses to believe this is real.

I’d take the masked prick over what’s beneath it.

That was easier to understand, and I had some form of contentment in the new and improved Asher.

Now all I have is death and destruction.

His fingers dig into my cheeks, pressing against my teeth until my jaw loosens to alleviate the ache settling through my gums.

“Does it turn you on?” he repeats. “All these years later, when you can’t find someone stupid enough to fuck you, do you think about us?

How you had me on my knees when you’d play that cursed fucking piano and I’d copy the notes against your needy clit?

” He leans into me and forces my head back as he presses his lips to the pit of my neck.

“Or,”—he traces a circle against my skin with his tongue—“how you’d sneak into my room to suck my dick like it was a pacifier that you couldn’t sleep without? ”

Kane abruptly pushes my face back.

My scream turns into a moan as he thrusts three fingers inside me. He uses them to pull me forward as I swing precariously with the noose around my neck and the tips of my toes clinging to the table legs.

“Or did you think about the lies you told me.” He flicks my clit with his thumb as his voice raises. “And the fact I’ve lost fifteen fucking years of my life!”