Page 1 of Resist Me Not (Bloody Desires #4)

TREY

I won’t burden you with the entirety of the tragic backstory of this tale’s hero. To be honest, I don’t remember much about the abuse, physical or verbal. I was a child, not yet old enough even for preschool, and Mother always took the brunt of it in her efforts to protect me.

But I do remember the day she’d had enough.

“Mother?” I’d peeked into the room where I’d been hearing the usual commotion, and then the strange, eerie, satisfying sound when it suddenly stopped.

Mother stood over the still sprawled out body of Father on the floor. One strap of her nightdress was torn, hanging limp. She held a brass candlestick by the neck, an old family heirloom, with its heavier base dripping red.

Yes, I have had the same thought as you are now. Mother in the study with the candlestick. The novelty still makes me smile.

“Trey…” she’d gasped upon seeing me, as the heavy brass murder weapon fell to the floor with a thunk.

She’d clocked Father quick and clean, one killing blow to the back of the head, and he was gone.

I remember how frightened she’d looked when she motioned me to her.

Not of Father. Not anymore. Not even of consequences to come.

She was frightened for me and how this might change me. How it might ruin me.

Maybe it did. I was barely four years old, but I knew what the red and stillness meant. I understood the permanence of death and that Father deserved it. But was I made that night into what I became, or had I always been destined to become this and nothing could have changed it?

I honestly don’t know. I also don’t care. But if you don’t want to meet me some night with an unknowable weapon in hand, in a dark corner of your home, to be left where no one will ever find you nor question why you’re gone…

Be a good parent.

Be a good partner.

And you can pretend I don’t exist.

“It’s okay, Mama.” I’d hugged her, summoning tears I didn’t feel the need to cry, but I knew she needed to see them. “Papa was bad. It’s okay he’s gone. You’re good . And I’ll be good. And we can be happy. Right?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She’d hugged me back tighter, relieved I think that I sounded so normal. I knew then that to keep Mother happy it would be best if I kept pretending I was normal, even if, long before I’d seen my first murder, I doubted I’d ever been like the other children.

Bless her heart, because she’d dried my tears, dried her own, collected herself, and disposed of the body.

I don’t remember the specifics, but it couldn’t have been easy.

Maybe as a nurse she was just that clever.

Maybe she got lucky. Maybe the cops on Father’s missing persons case were slacking or knew better or just didn’t care.

Regardless, from then on, Mother and I were free.

And the real me was set free too.