Page 30 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

We’re Not Gonna Take It

Chance

The table is set beautifully, like it always is on Thanksgiving.

My mom's always been big on presentation—everything must look perfect, even if we both know the day itself rarely is. The turkey sits in the middle of the table, golden and glistening under the light, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, and her new attempt at homemade cranberry sauce. She’s been experimenting with recipes, trying to make things “a little fancier,” as she puts it. She knows I like that.

I catch her eye as she sets the last bowl down, and I shoot her a grateful smile. “Thanks for cooking, Ma. It all looks amazing.”

Her face softens, the lines around her eyes crinkling with that warmth she always tries to project. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Across the table, my dad grunts. No thanks. No acknowledgment. Just a grunt as he grabs the carving knife and starts hacking into the turkey without so much as a word.

I glance at my mom. She looks away quickly, pretending not to notice.

“So, how’s school going, Chance?” she asks. Her casual tone sounds forced, but she knows how to steer the conversation away from him when she needs to.

“It’s good,” I say, scooping some stuffing onto my plate. “Hockey’s been great. Coach has me on this new workout plan. Practices are brutal, but it’s paying off.”

“It shows,” she teases, reaching over to squeeze my arm. “You’re getting huge, Chance.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Thanks, Ma.”

“What about Murph and Christian? What are they doing for Thanksgiving?” she asks. “Maybe they’d want to come over for dessert later if they’re not too busy with family?”

Before I can answer, my dad slams his fork down onto his plate. “What is this shit, Mary?”

The room goes silent.

He glares at the food on his plate. “The turkey’s dry, the potatoes need salt, and where the fuck are the jellied cranberries?”

My mom’s face falls, but she keeps her voice calm, even. “I’m sorry, John. I tried a new recipe for fresh cranberry sauce. They’re in the white bowl next to Chance. Just try them.”

“What did you just say to me?” he snaps, his voice bitter and dangerous.

I feel my body tense, my fork pausing halfway to my mouth.

He pushes back his chair with a screech, standing up so fast it rattles the table as he rounds it. “How about you try the cranberries?” he snarls, grabbing the white bowl and pouring its contents over her head. The bright red sauce cascades down her hair, staining her blouse.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he throws the bowl against the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces.

“Dad!” I shout, standing so fast my chair topples over. My fists clench at my sides, shaking with anger. “Leave her alone. Right now.”

He turns his glare on me; his face twisted with fury. “Shut up and sit down.”

“John, please,” my mom pleads, her voice trembling as she wipes cranberry sauce from her face.

My dad doesn’t even acknowledge her. He steps closer, his voice dripping with venom. “You want to say that again, Mary?”

She looks up at him, her eyes pleading. He just sneers, then slaps her across the face, hard enough to make her head snap to the side. Then he grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her out of her chair, dragging her to her feet.

I. See. Red.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” I roar, launching myself at him. I wrap my arm around his neck from behind, squeezing hard enough to make him let go of her hair. He stumbles, choking, his grip loosening as I drag him backward into the living room.

“Chance, stop!” my mom cries, her voice breaking, but I won’t stop.

Not this time.

I shove him into the living room, releasing his neck and pushing him away. He staggers, coughing, and turns to face me, his face red with rage.

“Oh, look at you,” he sneers, voice pitched with sarcasm. “Big, tough Chance. You think you’re a man now, huh? Think you can take me?”

I don’t say anything, my chest heaving as I glare at him.

“Fuck your mother,” he spits, his lip curling. “She’s worthless.”

That’s it. That’s the breaking point.

I wind back and launch my fist at his face, connecting with his jaw in a sickening crunch. He falls to the ground, but I don’t stop. I climb on top of him, my fists flying, landing punch after punch.

Blood splatters across my knuckles, his nose breaking under the force of my hits. He tries to block me, but I’m too fast, too furious. I can’t stop.

“Chance, stop!” my mom screams again, her voice desperate, but it’s like I can’t hear her. All I can see is him. All I can feel is the rage that’s been building for years, finally unleashed.

His blood is on my hands, and still, I don’t stop. I keep swinging, keep hitting, until I can’t anymore, until my arms are trembling, and my mom is pulling me back by my shirt, begging me to let him go.

I sit back, breathing hard, staring down at the man who has terrorized our family for as long as I can remember. He’s barely conscious, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, staining the carpet beneath him.

“Get out,” I growl, my voice low and steady. “If you ever touch her again, I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just glares up at me with bloodshot eyes. But for the first time in my life, I see something in them I’ve never seen before: fear.

The room is silent, except for my mom’s quiet sobs. I turn to her, my anger melting away as I see the tears streaming down her face, the red stain of cranberry sauce still clinging to her hair.

“Mom,” I whisper, reaching out to her, but she flinches, stepping back.

The look in her eyes breaks something in me. She’s not afraid of him. She’s afraid of me. Of who I am in this moment.

I’ve been fighting the pain and rage that live in me for years. I’ve kept it hidden, bubbling under the surface, convincing myself I could control it.

I can’t.

As I watch my mother back away from me, I realize what she’s actually afraid of. It scares her to death that I’m going to turn into my father.

Now I’ve shown her what’s raging deep in my belly… and what I’m capable of. Fuck.

I stagger to my feet, the weight of what I’ve done crashing down on me. My fists are raw and bloody, my chest heaving with every breath. I haul my father up by his collar, walk him to the front door and push him out of the house.

I don’t want Ma to worry, and I don’t want her to fear that I’ll be like him, but I don’t regret what just happened. It was long overdue.

As we, once again, pick up a mess left in the wake of his rage, I make a silent promise…

The next time he lays a hand on her will be the last time he takes a breath.