Page 65 of King of Pain

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.

TRACK TWENTY•EIGHT

In Your Eyes

Chance

The days leading up to Thanksgiving are a whirlwind of preparation. Ant is a man on a mission—I’ve never seen anyone so organized about a meal. It’s impressive, to say the least. He’s also unusually chatty when he’s buzzing around playing party planner. Makes me want to pin him to a wall and devour those full lips.

“Jen and Butters are confirmed,” Ant says, setting down a notebook filled with what looks like menus and lists. “Well, they already were, which you knew. But I had them double-confirm just to be sure,” he continues, rambling adorably. “Butters’ family is in North Carolina. His dad’s a senator, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. Senator Butters Sr.?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.

“Senator Buterbaugh, actually. But yeah, they don’t see eye-to-eye on anything,” Ant adds, shaking his head. “Butters has used football the last four years as an excuse to avoid Thanksgiving and family arguments. I’m sure he’ll continue that tradition when he’s in the pros.”

“Believe me, I can’t fault him for that.” I lean back on the couch, watching Little G chase his tail in the corner of the room. “Lexi’s in as well,” I tell him. “Her family’s traveling to Italy for the holidays. Her classes are too intense right now for her to go with.”

Ant nods, flipping through his notes, tapping his pen against the counter. “Good. Yes, that’s good. I’ve got everything weneed for dinner covered. Even picked up that new card game everyone’s posting about.”

Fuck, he’s cute.

“You really are incredible, you know that?” I tell him again. He flushes, a faint pink crawling up his neck as he ducks his head. That reaction never fails to make my insides melt.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, busying himself with his notes.

Hours later, as I shuffle off to bed, Ant is still bustling around the apartment, looking like he’s preparing for dinner service at a Michelin star restaurant.